No Fortress Is So Strong
by Prairie City
Summary: In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny. Complete.
1. So It Begins

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One:** So it Begins

* * *

In July of the year 1979, the Potters had a son.

They were both just twenty years old at the time, still children themselves really, and the Years of Terror (dubbed as such by the _Daily Prophet) _were still at full strength. Little Nicolas Potter was a surprise, the result of one night of unprotected passion, after one of many close calls.

They called him Nicolas after Lily's maternal grandfather and Evan after his mother's maiden name. And from the moment he was born, he was their life and their reason for living, and their ultimate goal was to provide a calm world for him to grow up in.

Nicolas Evan Potter was an eclectic mix of his parents' genes – he had James's mother's dark brown eyes, Lily's deep red hair, and the pale, pale skin common to redheads. When he was a little older, he even got a few of his grandfather Nicolas's large, pale freckles in the summer months.

Lily and James thought he was perfect, and couldn't love him any more than they already did.

Unfortunately, there was a war.

When Lily first discovered she was pregnant, the Potters discussed their options. Neither wanted to leave the war effort to others, but neither did they want to leave their son an orphan. It was decided – eventually – that they would take turns. Lily would watch their son for a few days while James aided the war effort, then he would return and Lily would take his place. To this end they asked one of their best friends Peter to perform a complex charm on their home in Godric's Hollow – the Fidelius Charm, a powerful spell that would ensure their home's complete invisibility and inaccessibility to anyone who wasn't told by the Secret Keeper – Peter – where it was.

And for several months, this worked wonderfully. Since the charm was on their home and not on the Potters themselves, they could leave and return at will, and still be completely protected within their home's property line.

Then one night Lily became pregnant again.

Seven and a half months later, Nicolas's younger brother was born six weeks premature at the end of July in complete silence. Terrified and sobbing, Lily watched as the Hogwarts Nurse gathered up her silent and unmoving son and a Portkey and rushed him into Hogwarts while a panicking James helped clean her up enough to follow. When they arrived, their tiny baby lay under extensive monitoring charms, clean and dry now and with a thick thatch of wild black hair.

"Oh," Lily said, laughing through her tears. "He's going to look like you!"

They called him Harry James, and they fell in love with him at once.

Then they realized he was one of two possible children of Prophecy, as Albus Dumbledore told them that night.

He resided in Hogwarts – in a specialized, hidden room – for nearly a month, until he was grown enough to be taken home and cared for by his parents. Even after he grew, however, he was still a little…strange.

Harry cried a lot. Not loud and obnoxious screaming, but quiet tears even more terrible for their lack of sound. Lily and James drove themselves spare trying to calm him down and dry his tears, offering him all manner of toys and comfort, but it didn't help. He never gained the weight he needed, never flourished as did his brother.

When Harry was born in such frightening circumstances, his parents made a decision they'd already been contemplating for months. With two sons their responsibilities had doubled, and with one son a probable target of the Dark Lord, in August of 1980 the Potters vanished entirely into hiding. For over a year, only a few select people had any knowledge of their whereabouts.

Until October 31st, 1981.

The Potters celebrated Halloween early that year. Two-year-old Nicolas gleefully accepted several bites of chocolate cake, and fifteen-month old Harry sat swinging his legs in his high seat, talking solemnly to his father in incomprehensible mumbles as James nodded and _hmm_ed and spooned mashed potatoes into his son's mouth. The potatoes made his already thick mumbles even less understandable, but no less intent. When James didn't seem to be paying attention, Harry added expansive gestures to the mix.

Harry luckily didn't mind not having chocolate cake, because Lily and James were careful to feed their youngest son only healthy foods as Harry rarely liked to eat at all. If he had any chocolate cake, he would refuse dinner, and according to James, if he had enough room for chocolate, he had enough room for more carrots.

However, despite this strict regime Harry still suffered failure to thrive.

Regardless, Lily had taken Harry upstairs early, his arms and legs limp and his head resting on her shoulder, while James sat Nicolas down on the rug in front of the fire and set to entertaining him with simple flashy charms. A few minutes later, Lily returned and smiled indulgently as her redheaded son tired rapidly, yawning widely. James tucked him into his side and stroked his hair as he fell asleep.

For a long time, it was quiet and peaceful, and then James heard the creak of the old wooden gate.

"Is that Peter?" Lily asked curiously, lifting her head.

"Yeah, must be," James said, lifting Nicolas away from his side and handing him to his mother. The toddler mumbled a bit and relaxed again in her lap, and James rose to his feet and headed for the door. He passed a window facing the front of the house, and that was the only thing that saved him from an instant, violent death.

Outside the window, a tall figure in a black cloak – _not_ Peter – strode directly towards the front door. James froze in surprise and confusion, and the figure raised his wand and obliterated the door. There was a deafening _crunching_ sound, and jagged pieces of splintered wood flew everywhere. The walls shook and the windows shattered. Lily cried out and Nicolas screamed in fright.

"Lily," James gasped, fumbling for his wand. "Lily, take him and go!"

Lily staggered to her feet, clutching her terrified son. The figure outside stepped forward.

"Go, Lily!" James yelled, finding his voice. "I'll hold him off!" James raised his wand, hearing dimly through the rushing in his ears his wife's footsteps up the stairs, where an emergency Portkey sat hidden in a secret cupboard.

But James didn't even have time to say a single spell – while his mind was still half on Lily running up the stairs, a flash of green light enveloped him. James's eyes closed and his body folded into itself; he sprawled long-limbed and graceful upon the floor.

As she reached to top of the stairs, Lily turned and saw her husband fall. She screamed, a desperate, terrified, anguished scream, and clung harder to her sobbing son. She turned and lunged into the boys' room, where Harry was standing waveringly in his crib, eyes wide. There were rapid footsteps on the landing; there was no time to grab Harry and make it to the Portkey.

But perhaps there was one thing she could do…

With a wave of her wand as the door flung open, she changed Harry's hair and eye colour to the only colours she could in the split second that she had. The wind of the flung door whipped her long hair forward over her shoulders. She dropped Nicolas in the crib beside his brother and whipped around, eyes narrowed, wand out. She would defend her sons until her dying breath.

The Dark Lord Voldemort stood before her, tall and thin and darkly cloaked. She couldn't see his face.

"Step aside," he whispered to her, voice like a breath of bitter wind.

"No," she said, "take me. Take me instead. Not my sons. Please, have mercy. Don't hurt my sons."

"Step aside, you silly girl. Step aside."

"NO!" Lily screamed. "Please, oh god, _please_ have mercy and _take me instead!"_

"So be it," came the terrible whisper, and that dreaded flash of green lit the room. She couldn't step aside – her sons were behind her. Lily closed her eyes and let it hit her.

She sprawled limply to the ground, her hair spread out in dark crimson ripples like a pool of blood.

Voldemort kicked her body away and surveyed the two babies before him. He wasn't sure which one was which, but it didn't matter. He would kill them both. He levelled his wand at the first redheaded child, staring up at him silently. Voldemort cast the spell.

He didn't even see it hit the boy, much less himself. He only felt a terrible ripping sensation, the remnant of his soul being torn from his body and catapulted away. Behind him, the house imploded, flames shooting high into the sky. Harry Potter was flung backwards onto his back by the curse, a thin stream of blood running down his face. Taller and stronger, Nicolas managed to remain upright until a tall glass vase on a high shelf exploded when the house began to crumble. Shards of glass flung in all directions, and a piece sliced shallowly into Nicolas's face as it spun past. Nicolas shrieked in surprised pain and fell backwards, hands going to his face. The movement rocked the crib, and then the shuddering house knocked it over, spilling both boys onto the floor.

After a moment, the house shuddered to a still silence, barely standing. Nicolas's face was covered in red. Harry was barely clinging to consciousness, laying silently on his back and covered in chunks of plaster, bits of wood, and a thick layer of white dust.

As the house rumbled into silence, a single, solitary cry rose and fell, wavering, full of pain and terror and anguish.

* * *

Several hours later, long after Nicolas's cries had faded away into silence, the house groaned loudly and threateningly as enormous footsteps sounded on the stairs. Miraculously, the house remained standing even as the owner of the footsteps reached the landing.

Nicolas whimpered from where he lay beside his mother's body, the blood on his face flaking off as it dried. There was a gasp, and Hagrid crouched to pick him up.

"Nicolas," he breathed, choking on tears. Nick whimpered again as he was moved, twitching restlessly as he was settled into the crook of a vast arm.

Hagrid knelt down beside the body on the floor, gently reaching out to straighten her and close her bright green eyes. He was still for a moment, tears trickling down his face.

Then he reached out and snagged a blanket from Harry's fallen crib. The motion caught at the crib itself and turned it sideways, exposing Harry's still form. Hagrid felt his heart clench. The littlest Potter…

Hagrid reached out, gently grasped a large chunk of plaster and lifted it away. To his delighted surprise, the movement caused a pair of dark eyes to slide open dazedly. Hagrid gave a cry and hurriedly blew away the dust, gently picking Harry up.

"You're alive," he rumbled, over and over. "You're both alive."

He gathered another blanket and wrapped one around each of the boys. Harry was silent and a little limp, and Nicolas was clearly in pain.

"Come on, then," Hagrid said in his deep, low voice. "We'd better get yeh ter 'Ogwarts, and get yeh both looked at righ' away."

He gathered them up into his arms and gingerly stood, wary of the groaning floorboards, and made his way as lightly as he could out of the house.

He was just contemplating how he was going to get them both back to Hogwarts when there was a roar and a screech, and an enormous motorbike dropped out of the sky. Hagrid stared.

A tall, black-haired man leapt off the bike and staggered, looking devastated.

"No," he moaned. "No, James. Lily! _James! NO!"_

"Sirius," Hagrid managed. "Sirius, 'm so sorry."

"Hagrid," Sirius choked. "Are they…are James and Lily…?"

"They're gone," Hagrid said hoarsely. "But the boys are okay."

"Nicolas and Harry?" Sirius asked, dazed. "They're…they're still alive?"

"Righ' here," Hagrid said, nodding at the toddlers in his arms. Sirius gave a hoarse, choked cry and stumbled towards him, arms already reaching out, sobs bubbling up from his throat. He touched them with trembling hands, ran his fingers down Harry's lethargic arm, choked back a moan at the dried blood on Nicolas's face.

"Wh-why does Harry have red hair?" Sirius choked out. "Wh-what a silly thing…"

"I don' know," Hagrid said, baffled.

"G-give them to me, Hagrid," he managed hoarsely. "I'm their Godfather – I'll take them."

"Dumbledore wants 'em at 'Ogwarts," Hagrid said apologetically. "An' I think they need t'be looked after, righ' now. By a nurse, like."

"Yes, you're right," Sirius said, seeming to force his voice to be level. "That's a good idea. Here, look, take my motorbike. It'll get you there faster."

"But yeh love tha' motorbike," Hagrid said, aghast, but Sirius was already shaking his head.

"Take it," he said firmly. "They're more important."

"Well, all righ'," Hagrid said, grateful for the help. "Thank yeh, Sirius."

"Take care of them," Sirius whispered, and then bent to give each boy a kiss, carefully avoiding the bloody gash on Nick's face.

"I will," Hagrid vowed, and swung his leg over the bike. It came to life with a bone-shaking roar, startling both boys awake and into tears.

"Bye, Harry, Nicolas!" Sirius called hoarsely. Hagrid waved and the bike sprang aloft.

Sirius didn't wait for them to disappear into the distance. His face hard, he neatly turned on his heel and vanished with a _crack._

* * *

"Which one got hit, Dumbledore?" Minerva asked, voice hushed. "Which one got hit by the Killing Curse?"

Dumbledore stared down at the two sleeping boys before him, remembering the prophecy. Both boys were born near the end of July – the 31st in Harry's case, the 29th in Nicolas's – but Dumbledore knew which one it was. He could feel it in Harry's mind, the terrible fright and hurt. Even now he was quiet and worryingly still.

In contrast, Nicolas was restless in his sleep, whimpering with terror and distress. His newly healed face had a terrible scar, starting in his forehead and extending down over his eyelid and onto his cheekbone. It was still red and irritated, but would eventually fade to a thin white line. Harry also had a scar, a funny zigzag shape on his forehead, like a lightning bolt.

Harry had a terrible destiny before him, Dumbledore knew. The _Dark Lord had marked him as his equal…_

"Oh, Lily," Dumbledore breathed inaudibly. "Smart, amazing Lily. If you'd been a pureblood…"

She'd tricked the Dark Lord. How and why, Dumbledore didn't know, but she had. He'd known what she had done the moment he'd seen two little boys with identical red hair and dark eyes in Hagrid's arms. He'd been forced to reluctantly alter Hagrid's memories of the event after returning Harry's colouring back to normal. No one else could ever know.

She'd given Harry a chance, and Dumbledore would honour that, though it put little Nicolas in deadly danger and likely would not get him any thanks from either boy. But it had to be done.

_I'm sorry, Nicolas, Harry. I am condemning you both to lives that aren't yours…_

"It was Nicolas," Dumbledore said, with a voice of certainty. "Nicolas survived the Killing Curse. He is the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Oh," Minerva said, gazing down at the older child. "It's a miracle."

"Yes, it is," Dumbledore murmured, eyes on the second, smaller child, who lay so still and quiet. "A miracle, indeed."

"Who will raise them now?" Minerva asked quietly. "After Sirius…and Lupin certainly can't."

"I'm afraid we will most likely have to separate them," Dumbledore said softly, "unless we can convince Lily's sister to take them both in. But my instincts rarely lead me astray, and in this case they are telling me we will have to find alternate arrangements for little Harry."

"Lily's sister?" Minerva asked, aghast. "Albus, you cannot truly…Lily hates..._hated _her sister, she told me many times. You cannot, certainly…not a _Muggle?_ He would be dead in a day!"

"I will invoke a set of Blood Wards," Dumbledore explained. "As long as he is in a house with his mother's blood kin, no one will be able to touch him."

One dull, grey Tuesday evening, twenty four hours after the Potters were killed and their son destroyed their murderer, Albus Dumbledore quietly mounted the steps to a children's home in London. Cradled in his arms was a black-haired baby, fast asleep.

For a long moment, Dumbledore simply stood there, remembering a similar moment earlier that evening when he rang the doorbell of a house in Surrey, while two-year-old Nicolas dozed restlessly on the porch. He'd watched from the shadows as the door had opened begrudgingly to show a heavyset man with a moustache. He'd stared down at the toddler at his feet in abject surprise, then looked around suspiciously. He'd shouted a few times out to the dark street, threatened to call the police on charges of abandonment, but when no one answered his shouts he had at last picked the child up and retreated into the house, where he would undoubtedly call to his wife and then find the letter detailing Nicolas's circumstances.

Dumbledore found himself loathe to do it a second time, with circumstances so uncertain, but he forced himself to gently set the warm bundle on the ground and step away. Just before he Apparated out of London, he waved his wand. There was a loud knocking sound on the door, and the doorbell rang stridently, and he turned on his heel and vanished away.

The door opened. A curious child peered down at the wrapped bundle in the moment it took for a caretaker to arrive. Then there was a gasp, and two hands reached out and lifted the bundle off the cold ground.

There was a note that fell out of a fold of the blanket, just a single piece of paper folded in half.

_His name is Harry James Potter,_ it read in slanted script. _He was born 31 July, 1980, and he was orphaned on Halloween._

* * *


	2. Sons

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary: **In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.  
**  
Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**  
Notes & Caveats:** See chapter one.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two:** Sons

* * *

"Get up, boy!" Aunt Petunia ordered, banging on the door of the cupboard under the stairs. Nearly-eleven-year-old Nicolas Evan Potter groaned quietly, rubbing at his eyes. The night hadn't been a good one; flashes of green light flooded his dreams, accompanied by a feeling of terror and a blazing pain on his face.

He'd once asked his aunt why there had been so much green light during the gas explosion that had killed his parents, but that line of questioning had earned him the chore of scrubbing the entire kitchen from top to bottom, so he hadn't asked again.

"Are you _up yet?_" Aunt Petunia demanded from the kitchen.

"Yes!" Nick lied, and struggled up off his cot. He shook a spider off his socks, put them on, and then stumbled out of the cupboard and into the kitchen.

"Mind the eggs," his aunt snapped, thrusting the spoon at him. "And comb your hair."

Nick ignored her and stirred the eggs while she hurried up the stairs to wake his uncle and cousin. Within moments, enormous thuds sounded as his cousin Dudley came down, and Nick sighed as he scraped the eggs onto a tray.

"I want bacon," Dudley said as soon as he entered the kitchen, and Nick gave him a withering stare. The last thing Dudley needed was more bacon, being rather porky himself.

"It's in the pan, Dudders," Aunt Petunia simpered, giving Dudley a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She glanced up at Nick. "Put the bacon on the table, boy."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Nick replied, twisting his mouth to the side a little, and he took the pan and spooned the bacon off onto the tray.

"Morning, Dudley!" Uncle Vernon proclaimed loudly as he entered the kitchen. "Excited, my boy? It's your tenth birthday tomorrow!"

"Yeah," Dudley said, grinning. "You got me a new television, right dad?"

"Well now, that would be spoiling the surprise, son!" Uncle Vernon said, settling into a chair and spooning eggs and bacon onto his plate. "But don't worry – I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Dudley looked smug.

Nick sighed and took a bite of toast.

* * *

A strong gust of wind swept up on Harry from behind, knocking his navy blue baseball cap off his head. He grimaced and took two large steps forward, crouching and sweeping it off the ground, then dusted it off. The bit of mud left a damp patch on the side, even after it was swept away. Sighing, Harry turned it over in his hands and put it back on his head, brim facing backwards, so that it obscured his wild hair.

It was a sunny summer day, but it was cold. Harry had a thick black jumper on to guard against chill. Despite that, the grassy park was filled with the laughter of children running and playing, safe under their parents' watchful eyes.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harry started walking along the dirt path that bordered the park, scuffing at pebbles on the way. He knew that his foster parents would be wondering where he was, but he found it hard to care.

Not that the Williamsons were unkind, by any means. Harry was old enough to know that they'd put a lot of effort into helping him, and was not ungrateful…but in his nearly ten years he'd had many, many foster homes; too many to count, really. He used to hope, when he was younger, that if he was just good enough, smart enough, brave enough, perfect enough…that someone would adopt him. But that hope had gone away by now, nine years after Harry was put into the system. He had stopped trying to get perfect marks in school, stopped trying to be the best behaved child in the world, and stopped getting attached to his foster homes and foster parents.

So even though the Williamsons were good people, and even though they would be wondering where Harry was, he kept walking along the path aimlessly, killing time before he had to leave and sit down to dinner as a _family_ and play games as a _family_ and have _quality family time_ with a family that _wasn't his_.

Another gust of wind sneaked through Harry's jumper and made him shiver violently. Ahead of him, a bench sat in the sunshine on the side of the trail, occupied on one end.

It looked very warm, sitting there on a sun-warmed bench. So, despite the fact that he didn't want company at the moment, Harry found himself moving over to the bench and sitting down on the opposite side, sighing quietly.

"Full of woes, boy?" the bench's other occupant asked, sneering, and Harry looked up at him in surprise. "You weren't born on a Wednesday, as I recall."

Harry blinked in surprise at the strange comment.

"Do you know me, sir?" he asked curiously.

"We've met," the man said, staring at him with tunnel-like black eyes. "Years ago. You wouldn't recall, I'm sure."

"Did you know my parents?" Harry asked eagerly, turning in his seat to face the man.

"Unfortunately," the man said derisively. Harry recoiled at the sharp tone, and the man looked at him and curled his lip, glaring at him in superiority down his large, rather hooked nose. Harry swallowed uncomfortably and then felt a rush of anger. Who was this man to make him feel like that? Determinedly, Harry straightened his shoulders and back, and raised his chin, glaring at the man as hard as he glared at Harry. If anything, this seemed to make the man sneer even more.

"You are your father's perfect image," he spat, jerking his head. The movement sent his shoulder-length black hair swinging lankly around his face, but Harry didn't register any of that.

"Really?" he breathed, forgetting that he was supposed to be glaring at this man. "My dad looked like me? Do you know his name? And my mother's? What did she look like? What did they do? How did they die?"

The man stared at him, expression suddenly blank. Harry felt his heart pound, his hope almost painful in his belly, twisting like something alive. A moment stretched on for an eternity, and Harry knew, just _knew_ that the man was going to get up and walk away, and leave Harry crushed on the bench behind him.

But he was wrong.

"Your father's name was James," he said, finally. "James Edward Potter. He looked remarkably like you but for his eyes, which were hazel instead of green. Your mother's name was Lily Evans, and you have her eyes. Her hair was red."

"How did they die?" Harry asked breathlessly, scooting closer to the stranger on the bench.

"They were murdered," the man said abruptly, and Harry recoiled again, this time in surprise. His eyes went wide.

"Why?" he asked, plaintively. "Who did it?"

"Why?" the man questioned, and shook his head. "No, boy. I will not tell you why."

"Why not?" Harry demanded angrily, feeling his heart twist at this turn of events, feeling a crushing sensation at having the information he sought so desperately near and yet completely out of reach.

"A tale for another time," the man stated as he rose to his feet. Harry jumped up, wanting to beg the man to stay and tell him about his parents, but crushing disappointment seemed to weigh down his words before they reached his mouth. "For now," the man said, "I come bearing a message."

"A message?" Harry whispered hoarsely, and the man nodded.

"_Not long now, Harry. A friend will contact you soon."_

"That's the message?" Harry asked.

"Word for word," the man confirmed, then swept his arm out to his side in an elaborate bow, his long black coat swirling around his knees. "Wednesday's child," he said coolly, and spun on his heel. Within two strides he was around the bend, and Harry finally felt his feet come to life.

"No, wait!" he yelled, and took off around the bend, and then skidded to a halt.

The man was gone.

* * *

Six days before Nick's eleventh birthday, a letter arrived for him. He'd been outside watering the garden before breakfast when the postman had come, and Nick watched as he distinctly sorted out two letters and dropped them into the slot.

Moments later, when Aunt Petunia hollered out the door that breakfast was ready, Nick wiped his feet off on the mat, opened the front door, and almost stepped on the pile of _three_ letters inside the doorway. His first thought was annoyance that no one had picked it up yet, and his second was one of surprise and disbelief. There, sitting next to his grimy trainer, was a letter on creamy parchment addressed in emerald green ink to _Mr. Nicolas Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey._

Blinking at the strange address, Nick bent down and picked it up just as Dudley thundered down the stairs.

"Wha' 'ave you got there?" Dudley demanded, and stood on tip-toes to take a look. "Mum!" he bellowed, making Nick jump. "Nick's gotta letter!"

"Who would send him a letter?" Aunt Petunia wondered out loud as she came out of the kitchen. Nick leaned away when she reached out to take it.

"It's mine!" he protested, holding it away. "It's addressed to me!"

But Aunt Petunia's eyes had fastened on the green ink, and her face went puce.

"Give me that!" she shrieked, so loud that Nick jumped in startled surprise. "Vernon, _Vernon!_ Come downstairs! _Give me that letter, you wretched boy!"_ she hissed, and whipped out her long, bony arm. She managed to snag a corner and rip the letter from Nick's grasp. "Go," she managed, pointing a shaking hand at Nick's cupboard. "Go, boy, or you'll get no meals today."

Nick went, reluctant and furious, just as Vernon came stamping down the stairs.

It was not by any means the end of it, though. The next day, two letters came with the post, both of them addressed in green ink. Uncle Vernon burned them. On the third day, Nick snuck out to meet the postman at the corner, but Aunt Petunia anticipated him doing such a thing and sent Uncle Vernon to fetch him back. When the post arrived, there were three letters addressed to him, which Uncle Vernon shredded individually and with great relish while Nick watched in dismay.

It was far from over. The next day brought a full dozen letters, squeezed through the slot and even under and around the door, squeezed flat to get through the cracks. Uncle Vernon, face trembling under the weight of his blustery fury, drove the letters to the dump and nailed the door shut.

The next day Nick entered the kitchen, bouncing on his feet in anticipation, wondering what his mysterious letter-sender would do today. Aunt Petunia was at the window, handing a confused-looking delivery boy a handful of pounds as he gave her a flat of two-dozen eggs through the open kitchen window.

When he left, a strained looking Aunt Petunia shoved the eggs at Nick and told him to make breakfast.

With one ear towards the mail slot, Nick fetched the pan and lit the stove, waiting for the butter to melt. No letters had arrived when he picked up one of the eggs and cracked it neatly on the edge of the pan, pulling the halves apart to let out the raw egg.

Except no egg appeared. Instead, rolled up and scrunched down so tightly it was egg-shaped, was a letter.

Nick gaped silently, then looked around furtively. Aunt Petunia was upstairs waking Dudley, so he turned back to the egg-letter and smoothed it out, slitting it open with the butter knife.

There were two pieces of thick parchment inside, both covered in the now familiar emerald green ink.

Nick read it silently, lips moving slightly. His eyes got wider and wider with each word.

"Aunt Petunia!" he yelped, finally finding his voice. "AUNT PETUNIA!"

* * *


	3. Meetings

**Title: **No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary: **In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** See chapter one.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Three: **Meetings

* * *

It was a long and very loud row, with Uncle Vernon bellowing threats, Aunt Petunia shrieking insults, Dudley's head swinging back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match, and Nick making loud and ineffectual protests that went largely unheard in the din. Nick thought that for all that his aunt and uncle insisted on keeping the neighbours in the dark, they were doing an awful lot of shouting that the neighbours would undoubtedly hear.

And it was amongst all this shouting that Nick nearly missed the quiet knock on the door. He froze and stopped his protests, cocking his head to listen. Aunt Petunia saw the gesture and clutched fearfully at Uncle Vernon's arm, turning to stare at the door in dread.

"Boy," Uncle Vernon whispered hoarsely, snatching at Nick's arm. "Go. Upstairs. Now."

Nick opened his mouth to protest, and Uncle Vernon shoved him hard, nearly knocking him over. Deciding it was best to continue the argument at a later time, Nick went.

He paused outside the kitchen, wondering who was at the door, and listened as Uncle Vernon answered the door with a hearty, strained hello.

Aunt Petunia shrieked.

Nick lunged back into the kitchen, not knowing what to expect but hoping that, somehow, it was a way to ensure he got to go to wizard's school.

There was a woman standing on the steps, tall and stately, and dressed entirely in a long emerald green dress. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a severe bun, and a pair of square spectacles sat perched on her pointy nose, through which a pair of beady dark eyes gazed narrowly at Nick's uncle.

"Mr. Dursley," the woman said crisply. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. I'm here to speak to your nephew."

* * *

"_Full of woes, boy? You weren't born on a Wednesday, as I recall."_

And…

"_Not long now, Harry. A friend will contact you soon."_

Dare he hope? It had been such a bizarre conversation from start to finish, as if the man in black had been waiting for him, had known exactly what Harry had been doing that day, and even known he would sit on that bench before Harry himself had known. Was that possible? Could someone know him so well, someone he'd never met before?

Harry's heart clenched painfully. In his backpack at the Williamsons, Harry had a note from the person who had dropped him off on the step of St. Colonus's Children's Home in London. It was written on thick, creamy parchment and simply stated his name, his birth date, and that he had been orphaned on Halloween.

Was it too far-fetched to wonder if it wasn't entirely true? Could, perhaps, the dark man that Harry had spoken to be some sort of cousin or uncle?

His breath suddenly short, Harry got up off the swing in the Williamsons' backyard and entered the spacious house.

"I'm going to the library, if that's all right," Harry said to his foster mother. Anna Williamson looked up in surprise, then pulled her hands out of the bowl of breadcrumbs she was sprinkling on the night's chicken dinner.

"All right, Harry," she said, going to the sink to wash her hands. "Just let me watch you go down the street, all right?"

"Of course," Harry said dismissively, and waited impatiently for her to finish washing her hands, then led the way to the door. In the suburb the Williamsons lived in, the library was just down the street within three-minutes' walking distance. From where he stood on the porch, he could see the front door.

"Go on then, Harry," Anna said, sitting down on the swinging bench where she could watch Harry walk. "Keep an eye on the clock please, I'll be out in an hour and a half to watch you walk home. Don't start walking until you see me wave, all right? And don't run off to the park again, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said dutifully, and started off down the sidewalk.

The library down the street made staying with the Williamsons one of the easier foster homes for him, especially during summer holidays. When his social worker returned to take him away to a new foster home, he would miss the library the most.

The door jangled when he pushed it open, a gust of cool air flowing out over him, carrying the scent of ink and paper and dust.

He stood there for a moment, thoughtful, remembering the strange things the man in black had said. He'd called him _Wednesday's child,_ Harry was certain of it. What a strange thing to call someone, as if a day of the week was able to have children.

Maybe it was a reference to a story, Harry thought, starting to walk forward. He supposed he could start in an encyclopaedia, and look up the term Wednesday's child.

But there was nothing in any of the encyclopaedias about children born on Wednesdays, or any other day of the week. Harry wondered vaguely what day he _had_ been born on, since the man (his uncle? cousin?) had said that Harry _hadn't_ been born on a Wednesday. Harry rubbed at his forehead in confusion. Nothing made any _sense._

Perhaps he wasn't related to Harry at all, and just knew him very well, somehow – but that didn't make any more sense than anything else. In Harry's experience, if you weren't someone's son, then they didn't care if you were born on a Wednesday or a Tuesday or on an effing Black Day or White Day or any other day. So at the very least, the man had to have been friends with Harry's parents…except he hadn't seemed to like Harry's father. Perhaps his mother? Or perhaps he hadn't liked them at all, but was still related? It was _possible_, wasn't it, that he was Harry's long-lost relation…

Harry firmly shook the thoughts away and glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes had passed already. Harry turned back towards the books, determined to understand what the man had said to him – but he never got the chance. The door jangled, and Harry looked up. He dropped his book in dismay.

It was Anna Williamson, teary-eyed, and leading a man into the room. The man's name was Michael Rider, and he was Harry's social worker.

"Hello, Harry," Michael said, grinning down at him. "Look at you, you've grown!"

Harry stared back, then slowly closed the book and carefully placed it on the shelf. He took several steadying breaths before he took his hand away from the spine. For some reason, at least a month before Harry had expected it, his social worker was here to take him away again.

Harry's eyes met his foster mother's where she stood behind Michael's back, wondering what she or her husband had done. She looked at him through watery eyes, her face so sad and apologetic that Harry had to force himself not to grimace and turn away. Instead, he allowed a black look to enter his eyes.

He hadn't cared about them…or at least, not very much, but he'd been here for two months already and he'd hoped to stay a while longer. It had been a nicer stay than many, barring the mandatory evening family time; and he'd loved having the library so close.

But now that was over, and Michael was still smiling at him, although the smile was soft and sad now.

"I'm afraid we have to go now, Harry," Michael said, placing a hand on Harry's unmoving shoulder, and Harry nodded and pushed himself to his feet. His eyes met Anna's again, and her face crumpled. Harry watched her turn away and raise her hands to cover her face.

Then he turned and followed Michael out of the library and back to the house, where Harry's belongings – those he was allowed to take – would be packed up in a single duffle bag while the rest remained behind, a testament to his time there.

Harry felt a rush of anger – not at the Williamsons any longer, but a far stronger anger at himself. Over and over again this had happened, he'd thought he wasn't getting attached and when the inevitable time came to leave, he realized he _had_ become attached, in spite of himself. Furious, Harry stamped ruthlessly at the sadness in his heart and told himself, yet again, that he would stop hoping for anything different.

There _wasn't_ anything different.

Deep in his mind, a tiny, nearly inaudible voice cried out for a tall man in black, who was Harry's last, final hope. Harry felt that hope and crushed it ruthlessly.

* * *

The woman – Professor McGonagall – tapped open the gateway to the wizard's shopping alley, and Nick gaped in delighted amazement. The alley was long and winding, and filled to the brim with shops and wares and people in brightly coloured robes, many of them with tall, pointed hats. Nick nearly broke his neck trying to look at everything at once.

"We'll be going to Gringotts first," Professor McGonagall said briskly, heading off down the street, weaving her way through the people and past the shops.

Nick hurried after her, breathlessly asking, "Gringotts?"

"The bank," she said, lifting a hand and pointing. Up ahead, an enormous white-marble building rose crookedly into the sky, looking for all the world that a light wind would knock it down. Written on the highest part (in gold!) was the name: _Gringotts._

Nick's mouth dropped open in astonishment, and he craned his head back to stare at the imposing building, not understanding how the people in normal London couldn't see it. Surely one could see it over the other buildings?

And on the _steps,_ when Nick dropped his gaze – two uniformed things that were a head shorter than Nick himself, short and squat and very, very ugly, dressed in black uniforms and cloaks with _Gringotts Bank_ written on the back.

"What are those…?" Nick asked breathlessly as they approached.

"Goblins," came the amused reply. "They run the bank. Don't ever try to cross them."

"Like I would!" Nick said, wide-eyed, and he spoke the truth. Those things were _scary!_

Nick followed Professor McGonagall into the bank through two separate sets of doors, the second one of which had a grim, threatening poem inscribed upon it. Nick gulped and stayed close to the Professor's tall form as she strode straight up to an unoccupied goblin teller.

"We're here to visit the Potter vault," she said crisply, and the goblin fixed her with one beady eye. To Nick's undying admiration, McGonagall fixed it with one right back.

"Key?" the goblin asked grudgingly, and McGonagall reached into a pocket of her green robes, which Nick just realized she _hadn't_ been wearing when she'd picked him up that morning – he clearly remembered her in a dress of the same colour. And yet, just as clearly, she was dressed in long, flowing robes.

Nick shook his head, sure he was dreaming, and watched as she pulled out a pair of golden keys.

"They are both here," McGonagall said, glancing at Nick with an unreadable expression. "Only one will be used today, however. If you could blood-set one, if you please, to Nicolas Potter."

The goblin looked unhappily gleeful – if that was possible – as he accepted a key. Then, so fast Nick barely jerked before it happened, the goblin swept out a disproportionally long arm, snatched up Nick's hand, and jabbed the sharpest part of the key into the fleshy part of his palm.

"Yeow!" Nick yelped, and snatched his hand back as swiftly as it had been snatched in the first place. There was a hole in his hand slowly oozing blood. Glaring, he stuck the small wound in his mouth as the goblin grinned unrestrainedly at him and created an imprint of the bloody key. After a moment and a few flicks of the goblin's surprisingly nimble fingers, the key was suddenly dangling in front of him, hanging from a slender golden chain.

"Over your neck, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said briskly, and Nick did as she said. "You'll never be able to lose it, now," she explained as she gestured at his bleeding hand. "If you misplace it, it will reappear around your neck. If it's stolen, the same."

"Oh," Nick said, grudgingly impressed, and turned the key to look at it. It was still streaked with his own blood, and Nick grimaced before wiping it off on his cousin's old clothes. When he looked up again, Professor McGonagall was striding away, following a second goblin towards the far wall and a large wooden door.

The teller growled loudly. Nick gulped and hurried away.

* * *

"It's your birthday, isn't it Harry?" Michael said lightly from the front seat of the car. Harry turned his head away from watching the scenery go by.

"Yes," he said simply.

"The big one-oh," Michael said, smiling. "Wow Harry, ten years old. Feel any different than yesterday?"

_A bit more lost, perhaps,_ Harry thought bleakly.

"Nope," he said calmly. "Exactly the same as yesterday."

"That's how they all go," Michael commiserated. "Even when you're my age. It's almost as if you change ages somewhere in the middle of the year without realizing it."

"Yeah," Harry said lifelessly, turning to stare out the window again. They were leaving central London now, driving past larger and larger gardens and houses, bigger and bigger trees, more grass and plants and flowers. He thought Michael might ask him what he got for his birthday, but was relieved when he didn't. He hadn't been able to fit the large drawing pad and coloured pencils into his bag, so the unused pad and unopened pencils were still in his old room at the Williamsons'.

Michael seemed to sense his souring mood, so the rest of the drive was spent in silence, until they pulled up in front of a smallish house in the outskirts of London. Harry looked it over with a practiced eye. The lawn was flawlessly green and immaculately trimmed. These people either had a gardener or loved to garden themselves, or just wanted their yard to look good. Regardless, they were clearly going to be strict about its upkeep, which was fine. Harry was good at gardening, it had been one of his many chores over the years, and the most common one as well.

There were no toys on the lawn, drive, or walkway, no bicycles or balls or even any footprints in the flowerbeds. There were clearly either no children at all, or they weren't allowed to play out front.

"I'm sorry for this, Harry," Michael said from the front seat, interrupting Harry's thoughts. "For the abruptness, I mean. I'm afraid your new foster family are just an unprepared as you, so please, please Harry, give them a chance, all right?"

"Yeah, I will," Harry said indifferently, opening the door and getting out. He heard Michael doing the same as he turned and reached in the car for his bag and swung it over his shoulder.

"Want me to carry that, son?" Michael said kindly, and Harry shook his head, turning his head away to hide the bitter twist to his mouth. _Son…_

Michael sighed and led the way up the walkway to the door, knocking lightly. After a moment, there was a soft patter of footsteps and the door was opened.

An older woman stood there, iron-grey hair pulled back into a messy bun, wrinkles lining her face. Her mouth spread in an uncertain smile when she saw them.

"Come in, come in!" she said, gesturing them inside. "You must be Harry James. I'm Donna Rogers."

"Hello, Mrs. Rogers," Harry said dutifully, and got his cheek pinched for his trouble. When she turned to greet Michael, Harry dropped his eyes to the floor, a dull feeling of hopelessness invading his chest.

* * *

One wild cart ride later, Nick stumbled out onto wobbling legs, a little green in the face. Those twisty turns…

"Key, please," their escort demanded, making the _please_ sound like a threat. Nick gulped and pulled his key chain over his head, handing it over. The goblin fitted it into the keyhole and hauled open the door. A lot of green smoke billowed out, and Nick watched it in interest, wondering where it had come from. Then he looked into the vault, and his jaw dropped again.

Stacks and stacks of thick gold coins, mounds of silver, and piles of scattered bronze.

"Whoa!" Nick breathed, taking a step forward. "Is this…all mine?"

"Half of it," McGonagall said softly, and Nick turned to ask who the rest of it went to but she gently pushed him into the vault before he could, and started explaining the currency. For a panicked moment his brain was locked between intense curiosity on the vault's other owner and fear of missing something important that Professor McGonagall was saying, before he forcefully focused on her and made a mental note to ask about it later.

He was told he had a limit of forty galleons, which were the gold coins. Professor McGonagall told him to take out his coin purse and looked surprised when he confessed he didn't have one, then her face changed to a look of resigned amusement.

"Into your pockets, then, and we'll look to buy you a coin purse first," she said, her face softening, and Nick proceeded to count out forty gold coins and stuff them into his pockets, where they bulged comically.

After another wild cart ride, Nick stood blinking in the bright sunshine outside Gringotts, feeling a crazed urge to buy everything in sight. He held back, however, and let McGonagall lead him to a shop that professed to stock _Every Bag of Every Size, Shape, and Colour!_

And it was true, _Every Bag_ had tote bags and book bags and shoulder bags and coin bags in every type imaginable. There were leather ones and knitted ones and beaded ones and crazily designed ones, and Nick browsed up and down the aisles in stunned disbelief. There, one had a _moving image _on it, of a type of animal half bird and half horse!

But McGonagall was ushering him along, so he at last picked out a nice brown leather coin purse with black stitching and drawstrings, choosing it after great deliberation over a flat, glossy black purse that hung on the belt and had a buckled flap. It cost three sickles and got Nick fourteen silver coins back in change, spilling over his hands and spinning on the countertop.

"I think I need another one," Nick questioned uncertainly. "It can't all fit, surely?"

"Of course it can," McGonagall said with certainty. "It's magic."

And sure enough, all fifty-three coins fit in the small bag with room to spare, and when they were all put away and Nick put the purse in his pocket, it looked like it barely took up any room in there at all.

Then, before they left, Professor McGonagall snapped her fingers apologetically.

"While we're here, you should also get a book bag," she said, leading him down the aisles to the relevant section. Nick chose a dark blue beaver hide bag and paid twelve silver sickles for it.

That's when they started shopping in earnest. Professor McGonagall took him to a shop full of magical trunks, where Nick picked out one made of rich, dark-red wood with golden hinges and clasps and a huge, magical lock. Like the coin purse and book bag, it too was bigger inside than it looked from the outside.

Then they went to the bookstore and bought Nick's schoolbooks. McGonagall practically had to drag him away from the wealth of wizarding information in there, but once out his attention was caught up with a million other things. They went to the Apothecary, a shop Nick could smell from thirty yards away, then to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to get him fitted for his school uniforms, and to the Potions and Astronomy Supplies store for a pewter cauldron, a set of scales and a collapsible brass telescope.

Finally they went to buy his magic wand at a dim little shop called Ollivander's.

A softly tinkling bell announced their entrance, and a stuffy pressure made itself known on Nick's eardrums. Dust and magic tickled at his nose.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice said, and Nick jumped in startled surprise. From out of nowhere, it seemed, an old man had appeared. He had silvery, moon-like eyes that stared hard at Nick's face, lingering especially on the jagged scar that sliced through one eyebrow and down over his eye, ending on his cheekbone. Nick shifted uncomfortably, feeling vaguely like he was being x-rayed.

"Mr. Nicolas Potter," Mr. Ollivander – for that's who it must have been – said softly. "I've been expecting you."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Nick said nervously.

"And I you, child," came the returned whisper. The old man stared for a moment, then Nick suddenly got the feeling he was resisting a smile. "Crafty old bugger, he is," he whispered, to Nick's confusion. "Too clever by half."

One arm reached behind the old man and returned bearing a box that he'd picked up without even looking at it.

"Twelve inches, oak, with a core of dragon heartstring. Go ahead, give it a wave."

Nick waved, only to have the wand snatched out of his hand at once.

"Walnut, unicorn tail hair, nine-and-a-half inches. No, here; cherry wood and dragon heartstring, ten inches."

Wand after wand after wand, until Nick started getting nervous that maybe he wasn't really a wizard, after all.

Until, at _last_… "White oak and phoenix feather, eleven inches."

And a warm, delightful glow filled him, making his heart skip a beat and his breath catch.

"Oh, bravo!" Ollivander said, clapping happily. "Well done, indeed. That's six galleons, if you please."

Nick counted out the gold coins, still clutching his white oak wand in his fist. Ollivander gave him the wand's box and a tin of polish and sent him on his way.

As they were striding back down the alleyway, McGonagall stopped at another smelly shop, although it was much improved over the apothecary. It was _Eeylop's Owl Emporium_ and it was clearly a magical pet shop.

"In the Wizarding World," McGonagall began, "we use owls for post. They carry letters to us and we can send letters out with them. Owls are very intelligent creatures and although the school will supply you with school owls, I would strongly recommend getting one of your own. I think you'll find you will have use for it, and there is nothing like a good owl of your own."

"I'd _love_ an owl," Nick said, sparing a thought towards Aunt Petunia's reaction to bringing one home. The thought made him want one even more.

"Very good," McGonagall said, and led the way into the shop.

There were not only owls there, although a significant part of the shop was dedicated to them and their supplies. Toads sat gulping in their tanks, beside brilliantly-coloured snails oozing up the glass, rats playing in their cages, cats meowing from crates and even a few wicked-looking birds of prey, situated behind the counter. Occasionally, one would shriek piercingly.

"They're not allowed at Hogwarts," McGonagall informed Nick when she caught him looking at one particularly handsome falcon, "aside from the fact that they're very difficult to handle."

Sighing, Nick turned away obediently and made his way to the owls. He browsed up and down the aisle, examining the owls. There were all kinds – big owls, owls the size of his fist, great-horned owls and imposing eagle owls. One brave barn owl hooted at him softly when he passed it, and rubbed its face against his finger when he poked it into the cage. He smiled blindingly at Professor McGonagall and got a slight but genuine smile in return.

* * *

Harry felt like he was a plant that had been roughly uprooted and sloppily replanted somewhere else, but that was not a new feeling for him.

The new house's closest park was a thirty minute walk away, and the closest library even further. So the day after his arrival Harry found himself spending his second day as a ten-year-old walking around the block, wearing a light jacket against the cool air.

Glancing up at the sky, he noted the low grey clouds and the smell of impending rain. He rather thought that Donna and Pat Rogers would like him to come inside, but Harry felt no inclination to do as such, so he continued around the block for a second time.

When he got to the turn he needed to take, he hesitated. He'd been that way, knew the path, had looked at everything interesting to look at. Straight ahead the street glided out of sight, promising new adventures and interesting things.

He looked back down the street at the Rogers' house, small and dim and grey, and then he stepped off the curb and continued on. Straight.

He knew the foolishness it was, walking in an unknown neighbourhood without knowing where he was going. He was nine – _ten –_ years old and it seemed like every foster parent he'd ever lived with had taken it upon themselves to inform him of the ways of the world, _just in case_ he hadn't heard it before. They had all seemed deaf to his protests that he knew there were kidnappers and murderers and molesters out there.

Regardless, he knew it was foolishness, but he couldn't bring himself to care. So he walked, aimlessly and for a long time, until the neighbourhood grew grimmer and less cared for, the houses smaller and dirtier and fenced in with their gates locked. Harry paused, looking around uncertainly.

There were quiet, indistinct voices coming from around the corner, and Harry shuffled curiously forward to peek around a stunted, dying tree.

It was the corner lot, which held a burned-out husk of a house. Charred wood and a fine layer of black charcoal was predominant – that and a group of young boys. There were three of them, the oldest clearly about sixteen, the youngest no older than Harry himself.

The two older boys were clearly the ringleaders, the youngest probably a tagalong-younger-brother. The two older boys were smoking something from odd-looking pipes, each sitting on a more-or-less solid beam of wood, leaving the youngest boy to stand or sit on the blackened ground.

Harry watched interestedly as the two older boys murmured quietly to each other, occasionally sparing a word for the standing boy, and finished up their smoke. Then they stood and moved off, away from Harry towards another section of the neighbourhood.

Harry turned away and left, for it was getting dark now and he had to walk a long way. The Rogers' would be terrified and then furious, Michael would have been called, possibly the police. Harry found he couldn't care about it.

McGonagall bought Nick dinner when they were finished, back at the Leaky Cauldron. This time, since they weren't hurrying discretely through, Nick found himself, bizarrely, the focus of intense whispers and, even more inexplicably, the recipient of an endless amount of handshakes.

When Nick looked up at the Professor in beseeching confusion, she clapped her hands sharply. The pub came to attention like a classroom full of students, abruptly falling silent and respectful.

"Now you've gotten your chance to greet Mr. Potter," she said briskly, "but I'm afraid we're both quite famished, so if you please, we're to be left to dine, now."

Mutters sounded, disappointed and rebellious, but the crowd slowly dispersed back to their own tables, and the old, toothless barman arrived with two huge plates of steak-and-kidney pie. Nick's eyes lit up in surprised delight and he wasted no time in digging in, but only two or three bites into the meal he slowed, his mind latching onto two strange occurrences that stood out in a sea of strange occurrences.

"Professor McGonagall?" he murmured, toying with his pie. The Professor looked at him through beady eyes.

"Yes?"

"Why did all those people seem to know me?"

The Professor looked at him for a long moment, then set her fork down.

"I suppose now's as good a time as any," she said slowly, and then began to outline a story so unbelievable that Nick sat there for some time after it was finished, trying to get his mind around it.

"My parents were murdered?" he whispered bleakly, and McGonagall nodded, her expression softening. "Why didn't my aunt and uncle tell me? They told me they died in a gas explosion."

"I'm afraid I am not privy to your relatives' minds and motivations," was the reply, "and I cannot accurately tell you why, nor even hazard a guess."

"They hate magic," Nick said glumly. "Always have."

"Eat your pie, Potter," she returned. "It's long gone stone cold by now. Here," she flicked her wand and steam rose anew from the pies, to Nick's delight. He moved to put a forkful in his mouth as he thought, his mind spinning around so hard he had to be careful lest it overwhelm him.

Then, although it had been chased right out of his mind by the strange people coming up to him, he remembered – again – what had happened in Gringotts, in his vault. Nick shoved the last bite into his mouth and this time had the presence of mind to wait while Professor McGonagall finished her own.

"Who's the other owner of my vault?" Nick asked at once, when she at last set her fork down.

"Your younger brother," she said calmly, and Nick stiffened in his chair, a dim, nearly forgotten memory struggling to make itself known. A feeling that dogged his restless dreams – a flash of green light, a horrible pain in his face, a feeling of abject terror, and the sensation of another presence at his shoulder, smaller than him.

_Harry._

"My brother," Nick said numbly, and his world turned on its axis yet again. His _brother._

"Harry James Potter," McGonagall provided. "He turned ten yesterday, and he is in the fostering system. He lives in the outskirts of London now, with an elderly couple. It is he I wished you to buy an owl for. You can write to him now. Another Professor is likely informing him of our world as we speak."

* * *

There were two silent and unfamiliar cars outside the Rogers' house, and Michael's car was parked in the drive. Harry sighed heavily as he dragged his feet up to the lawn, taking bitter pleasure in walking upon it, disturbing its pristine greenness.

Before he reached the door however, one of the cars opened and a tall muscular form unfolded itself from the front seat.

"Hey, boy, are you Harry?" the man said, and Harry stopped walking.

"Yes," he replied quietly.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, coming closer. As he stepped into the light of the porch, Harry noticed that he was very young, probably not even out of college yet. His face was smooth and unlined.

"Yes," he said again, answering the man's question as he came close and bent to look Harry in the face.

"All right," the tall man said. "Let's go in."

"Yes," Harry sighed, turning back to the door. The neighbour knocked and then opened the door, ushering him inside.

"Mark," the man called into the front foyer. "I've got him. He came home."

"Harry?" Michael said from where he stood beside another man – Mark something-or-other, obviously.

"Hi, Michael," Harry said, weary.

"Harry! Wherever did you go? Did you run away?"

"No," Harry said, derisively. Honestly, did they think he was stupid? He wouldn't run away unless he was damn sure he could manage it properly, which was not when he had no food and only the clothes on his back and not even a pocket full of money. He continued, widening his eyes and forcing them to water a little. "I was walking around the block and I missed my turn, is all. I got a little turned around, that's all. I didn't mean to worry anybody."

The neighbour who'd been talking to Pat Rogers shook his head and pocketed the notebook he had in his hands.

"Looks like everything's just fine," he said wryly. "That's excellent."

Harry looked at him, giving nothing away on his face. The man quirked a lip at him, the weary lines on his face deepening with the movement. Harry wouldn't be able to lay it on too thick with this one.

"I'm okay," he said simply, careful to appear subdued.

"Very good, son," Mark said gruffly. "Be careful from now on, yes?"

"Yes," Harry sighed.

"Perhaps a talk of the ways of the world?" Mark suggested, glancing at Pat Rogers. Harry's new foster father nodded firmly, and Harry grimaced mentally.

As the two men turned briskly to the door, Harry spoke up and made his voice very small.

"Sorry," he said tentatively to the two neighbours' backs.

"That's all right, son," Mark said calmly. "Just don't do it again, all right?"

Harry nodded, and the men walked out, opened the doors to their cars, and drove away.

The rest of the evening was spent convincing Michael he hadn't meant to get lost and take so long to return, convince Pat that he was so sorry that they had needed to call the neighbours, and convince Donna that he hadn't meant to make her worry and he was _so sorry_ and made sure to lay it on thick with her.

Then they gave him something to eat and sent him off to shower and bed. Only when he turned off the lights and was just dropping off into a doze, a softer, more glowing light appeared.

Harry opened his eyes and jumped, startled, at the face in front of him.

It was pale grey in the funny light, but Harry recognized the sharp features and long, lank hair. He sat up rapidly, a feeling of relief and delight sweeping through him.

"You came back," he whispered, smiling. "I didn't think you'd be able to find me again."

"Of course I would find you again," the man said derisively, sneering again. "I'm a wizard."

Harry scowled.

"Don't be silly," he mumbled, and the man raised an eyebrow.

"Silly?" he said, making the word sound like _dead rotting maggot invested flesh_. "Why ever would I do such a thing? I am, indeed, a wizard. In fact, I am a Potions Master and the Professor of Potions at Hogwarts."

"Potions?" Harry said doubtfully. "Yeah, and next you're going to claim you have a staff and are a companion to elves."

The man looked honestly perplexed. "A…what are you talking about?"

"You know," Harry said irritably. "_Gandalf the Grey?_"

"I do not know the reference," the man said, scowling. "Regardless, I _am_ a wizard; although I carry a wand, not a staff, and I am certainly _not_ a companion to House Elves."

"What are you doing here, then?" Harry demanded, making sure to keep his voice low. "I…are you going to take me away from this place?"

Be damned, that feeling of hope that came twisting into his chest. He lifted bright eyes to the Professor's dark ones, knowing they were pleading but unable to stop them.

"Not yet," the Professor said, and Harry was filled with both despair and joy, despair because he wasn't here to take him away, joy because he would eventually. "However, I am to tell you another message." The Professor stood up straight and cleared his throat, then recited:

"'_Tell young Mr. Potter that his brother has gotten his letter and will be sending him one soon. He is to expect a barn owl at his window at midnight.'"_

"What does that mean?" Harry said blankly. "I don't have a brother."

"That was the message," the Professor said briskly, turning to go.

"Wait!" Harry gasped, scrambling out of bed. "Please, sir, I don't understand! I don't have a brother!"

"Obviously, you do," the Professor sneered derisively.

"I never sent him a letter!" Harry said desperately.

"I never said you did."

"But Professor!"

"Not another word, Potter," the man said irritably, reaching into his pocket. Harry keened, lowly, shifting desperately from foot to foot.

"You called me Wednesday's child," Harry blurted out.

"Yes, and?"

"What does it mean?"

"It means that you were born on a Wednesday."

"But you said I wasn't," Harry returned swiftly, and the man paused, holding a slender stick in his right hand. Harry stared.

"If I recall correctly," the man said softly, "you were born on a Thursday. I think, however, you are much more of a Wednesday's child."

"What does that _mean?"_

"It's a children's rhyme called _Monday's Child._ Look it up yourself."

With that, the man spun on his heel and vanished, just like that, only a soft pop accompanying the trick. Harry gaped in disbelief, staring at the spot he had been in.

_

* * *

_

Dear Harry,

_I don't know if you remember me. I didn't remember you until someone reminded me. My name is Nicolas Potter and I am your older brother._

_I don't know very much what to say. I got my Hogwarts letter, finally. That's the letter of acceptance to wizard's school, where I'm going in September. I asked Professor Magonagal if I could meet you before I left but she said I wouldn't have time, but I can write you. I will write you every day! I will tell you everything._

_I can't wait to go to school, but I want to see you too. I can see you next summer, when you get your own letter._

_This owl is mine. His name is Rocky and he's a post owl. You can give him a letter and he'll get it to me, even if you don't know where I am._

_Write back, okay?_

_Nicolas Potter_

* * *


	4. The 1st of September

**Title: **No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary: **In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This chapter contains a small amount of violence that may upset some people.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Four:** The 1st of September

* * *

It was the first of September, and Harry knew that his brother Nick would be getting ready to leave for the station, full of excitement and nervousness.

In the month since Harry had first received a letter from the brother he couldn't remember, the two boys had exchanged almost daily notes. Nick was bubbling over with enthusiasm, describing his trip to Diagon Alley and how interesting his texts were and how he was so excited to leave the Dursleys. The Dursleys were his and Harry's foul Muggle relatives; their mum's sister Petunia, her husband Vernon, and their son Dudley, all of whom Harry had never met.

In contrast, Harry's notes were much less exciting. Who wanted to know that Harry dreaded starting at yet another new school? That he hated science and was fair at mathematics and loved art? So Harry's notes were usually encouragement and questions, asking for details about this and that, and once even asking his brother to send him a Galleon, a Sickle, and a Knut so he could see them. The very next letter had been folded around three coins and tied with a small bit of white string.

Once, Nick asked what Harry looked like, and Harry had replied with as much level of detail as he could: black hair, green eyes, pale skin, rectangular glasses and a lightning bolt scar, and asked for the same.

Nick had seemed reluctant, somehow, but Harry hadn't known why he'd thought that. Something in the scratchy handwriting, perhaps, as Nick described his dark red hair, dark brown eyes, freckles, round glasses, and a scar of his own. Harry thought that if he, Harry, looked like their father James, then Nick must look like their mother Lily.

Harry longed more than anything to see his bright and cheerful older brother in person, and had even contemplated finding his own way to Surrey to do so, but before he could quite work up the courage to vanish for an entire day, September had arrived, and it was too late.

So as Harry reluctantly readied himself for the start of a new school year as a ten year old, he imagined Nick scrambling around to see if he'd forgotten anything, double-checking to make sure his new bottles of ink were safely stowed, pacing for several minutes and then checking everything again.

* * *

Sure enough, Nick was almost bouncing out of his skin. It was the first of September and he was leaving the Dursleys to go learn to do magic!

Downstairs, the Dursleys were scowling mightily into their breakfast, which Nick had no desire to eat. They were somehow able to consume their weight in food while seeming to fork in only one bite every half-hour. To Nick, they looked like they were moving in slow motion, and the hour until they were set to leave passed at a crawling pace. Nick had to suppress the urge to wave his wand to see if it could make them move faster.

Finally, though…_finally_ they were ready to go. Nick struggled to the car, dragging his enormous school trunk. He stowed it away and jumped in the car while Uncle Vernon was still fetching his hat, and impatiently bounced one knee as he waited.

The drive seemed agonizingly long and slow, but they reached the station on time, despite the fact that the car had felt like it was crawling the whole way. Nick tumbled out of the car and raced around the back to get his trunk while Uncle Vernon grumbled and went to fetch a trolley, which Nick thought was strangely kind. At least, until Uncle Vernon wheeled his trunk into the station and stopped dead, smiling nastily.

"Where's your platform, boy?" he asked, grunting with laughter. Nick looked at the platforms, then down at the ticket in his hand, and back up to the platforms. There was a sign over one platform with a big number nine on it, and one with a big number ten on the next one over, but in the middle there was certainly no Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"Have a good term at school," Uncle Vernon said, smiling an even nastier smile, and he left without another word. When Nick looked back to see the Dursleys pulling away, he could see that they were all laughing.

Nick stood there for a while, thoughts racing through his mind. Was this all an elaborate prank? he wondered, and clutched at the handle of the trolley until his knuckles turned white.

Thankfully, and to his great joy, a family walked past. The first thing he noticed about the family was their strange way of dressing – the man had on what looked like eighteenth century leggings with a wide, ruffled white shirt. He looked perfectly bizarre, and Nick watched him walk by with his mouth hanging open.

Then he saw something that made him snap his jaw shut and heave his body against the trolley, struggling to hurry after them, because there, on top of the trunk in their trolley, was an _owl._

But before he could reach them, they vanished. One after the other, they disappeared right in front of the barrier.

Gaping again, Nick walked slowly up to the very solid looking barrier, took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching him, and then knelt to look for any clues. He saw nothing though, and stood up to lean against his trunk.

Suddenly from behind him came the snarled words, "Watch it, Mudblood," and a hard shove to his back. Nick yelped and fell straight through the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

* * *

On the first day at his new school, Harry got into his very first fistfight.

It started shortly after he arrived, when he escaped the registration office and was allowed to while away the remaining time before class in the playground area out back. There, he saw the young boy again, the one he'd seen the night Michael and the neighbours had come, at the old burned out lot in the bad part of the neighbourhood.

He was breaking the wings on a small screeching sparrow, one that had probably already been injured.

The angry shrieks resonated with something ugly in Harry, a memory perhaps, and before he'd known what he was doing he was laying the boy out on his back with one hard punch to the jaw.

The other boy didn't stay down long, however, and was back on his feet and giving as good as he got. He was a dirty fighter, and a fast one, and Harry was hard-pressed to keep up. He was nailed in the mouth once and then on the side of his head, and kicked several times in the legs, but Harry was a quick learner and a tenacious one. He got in a few good hits of his own before they were dragged apart, spitting and snarling at each other.

On the first day at his new school, Harry got into his very first fistfight, and got expelled for it.

Pat was silent during the ride home, so Harry followed his lead while he held an icepack to his bleeding mouth. When they reached the house, Harry saw Michael's car in the drive.

He sighed and gingerly adjusted the icepack, feeling around in his mouth with his tongue. He figured he'd have a day of swelling and then a lovely bruise.

When the car stopped, Pat jerked the door open and got out abruptly, still silent. Harry sighed again and followed.

Michael was mortified on Harry's behalf, and angry with Harry himself. Pat refused to speak to any of them and Donna scrubbed angrily in the kitchen.

Harry himself stood there with his mouth swelling up and his entire body aching and listened without rancour as his guardians shouted at him. Then, seeing that it wasn't making an impact, they changed to gently expressing severe disappointment. Harry wanted nothing so much as to go to sleep and wake up that night when Rocky was to arrive.

* * *

Where platforms nine and ten had been mildly full of sombre-clad people hurrying to their boring destinations, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was chock-full of brightly robed witches and wizards. Nick watched open-mouthed as a boy's father flicked his wand and the boy's trunk floated lightly onto the train.

There were owls hooting and cats of every colour winding around and meowing, and students – some in casual clothes, others already dressed in their robes – chattered and laughed and bid their parents goodbye. One particularly large family looked to contain a dozen redheads!

Nick pushed his trolley slowly forward, while taking in his surroundings. In his cage, Rocky hooted loudly at another owl, who amiably returned the greeting. Nick grinned, the little thing bizarrely making him feel much less out of place.

He headed towards the scarlet steam engine, then struggled a little with his large, ungainly trunk before one of the passing older students flicked his wand and floated it up into the train.

"Thanks," Nick said, turning to the student. He was a little older than Nick himself, tall with dark hair and grey eyes.

"No problem," the boy said. "I'm Cedric Diggory, third year."

"Nicolas Potter," Nick replied, shaking the other boy's hand. Diggory's eyes went wide, and they zeroed in on Nick's scar, making him want to hide his face.

"Goodness," Diggory said. "You _are._ Very pleased to meet you."

"Yes, you too," Nick muttered, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"If you need anything, go to one of the prefects," Diggory said helpfully, pointing out a tall student in their black robes with a silver badge pinned to their chest. The badge had an ornate _P_ embossed on it. "They're here to help."

"Okay, thanks," Nick said, grateful for the help.

"Sure. See you around, Nicolas."

"Bye," Nick replied, and returned to the train to find a compartment.

He found one in the middle of the train and sat down with his trunk in the middle of the floor. He'd been sitting there for perhaps thirty seconds before the door slid open again, and another student poked their head it. He was slight and pale and had brown eyes and light brown hair that needed a cut.

"Hi," he questioned, looking uncertain. "Are you Nicolas Potter?"

"Yes," Nick replied, blinking. The boy's eyes were focused on his scar.

"Do you mind?" the boy asked, gesturing to a seat. "Everywhere else is full."

"Go ahead, it's fine with me," Nick replied, and the boy came in dragging his trunk. Nick flushed and dragged his own trunk out of the way, and then helped the other boy heave his onto the racks.

"This your trunk?" the boy asked, nodding at the trunk on the floor.

"Yeah," Nick responded.

"C'mon then," the boy said, grabbing one handle, and together they got Nick's trunk stored beside the other in the racks.

"I'm Jonathan Bonham," the boy stated, bravely sticking out a hand. Nick shook it, bemused. "But most everyone calls me Jon."

"Most everyone calls me Nick," returned Nick. "Nice to meet you."

The words seemed to transform the boy into a smiling friend.

"What house do you think you're going to be in, Nick?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know," Nick said, remembering Professor McGonagall mention something about houses when they went to Diagon Alley. "But no one really knows, do they?"

"Well, not really, but my family have been Ravenclaws and Gryffindors for eight generations, so it's pretty likely I'll be one of those. Of the two, I like the sound of Gryffindor best."

"What are they, again?" Nick wondered. Jon stared at him, confused. "I got raised by my Muggle relatives," Nick admitted, flushing.

"Oh," was the reply. "Er, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin," Jon recited. "Gryffindors are sorted according to courage and chivalry, Ravenclaw to intelligence and book-learning, Hufflepuff to loyalty and hard-work, and Slytherin to cunning and ambition."

"I've no idea," Nick said truthfully after thinking about it. It was true, he didn't feel very courageous or smart or cunning or any of it. Maybe Hufflepuff would be best for him.

"Don't worry," Jon said with a shrug. "The Hat will put you where you belong."

"The Hat?" Nick asked blankly.

"The Sorting Hat," Jon explained. "It's an ancient magical hat that tells you what House you're to be in."

"Oh," Nick said weakly, feeling vaguely overwhelmed.

While they'd been talking, the train had started on its journey to Hogwarts. Nick eagerly looked out the window when the platform slid away beneath the windows, and Jon fought over beside him and waved frantically at his parents and a little girl that must be his sister.

"Bye, Jane!" Jon shouted, and his family waved back, calling cheerful goodbyes. On either side of them, students hung from windows and did the same, joyously filling the air with their calls as the train whistled and began to chug faster. Then they were around the bend and the platform was gone.

"Your sister?" Nick asked, feeling a sharp pang of longing.

"Yes, Jainalise," Jon said. "She's two years behind me. She'll be Ravenclaw, I just know it."

"I have a brother," Nick said, feeling equal parts subdued and proud. "His name is Harry."

"You have a brother?" Jon asked curiously. "I didn't know that."

"He's a year younger than me," Nick explained. "Harry James."

"Oh," Jon said, not seeming to know what to say to that. Nick sighed quietly.

The two boys filled the time with light chatter and laughter. Midday, a trolley came through, pushed by a plump witch and filled to the brim with magical treats of all sorts. Nick blinked in delight and jumped to his feet, suddenly remembering his lack of breakfast that morning. He pulled his coin purse from his pocket and gave four silver coins and two bronze ones to the woman to buy a dozen Chocolate Frogs, a pair of something called Pumpkin Pasties, a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, some Jelly Slugs, and some giant chocolate balls filled with cream and strawberry filling.

Jon looked flabbergasted when Nick brought his fare back into the compartment. While Nick had been deliberating, Jon had bought a Pumpkin Pasty and a pair of Chocolate Frogs.

Nick flushed a bit.

"Want to share?" he asked, embarrassed, and Jon grinned.

"Yeah," he said, picking up the box of Every Flavour Beans.

* * *

Harry was grounded. According to Pat, that meant no telly, no phone calls, and no walking around the block. Harry was to stay in the house and yard at all times.

Harry didn't care about that – he would figure something out. He was just glad that no one aside from him knew about Nick and Rocky and the letters that came at midnight.

So Harry spent the rest of the day in his room, waiting for darkness and midnight, his stomach twisting with longing to hear from his brother, to read about his exciting first foray into the Wizarding World and smile at his happiness.

Minute after minute, time moved the slowest it had ever moved.

And Harry waited.

* * *

It was dark when the train pulled up to the station. A voice echoed through the entire train, telling them to leave their belongings on the train, that they would be taken to the school for them.

Nick was in his school robes, following Jon off the train and onto the dark platform. High over their heads, an enormous man stood, holding a lantern and shouting.

"Firs' years!" he bellowed. "Firs' years over here!"

Nick and Jon struggled their way through the crowd to the man, joining up with dozens of other students their age.

"Tha' everyone?" the man asked. "Righ', let's go! Follow me!"

The first year students stumbled after the much taller man, hurrying to keep up as he led them down a darkened path full of rocks and exposed roots. Nick nearly broke his ankle at one point when he tripped.

As they made their way around the bend, Hogwarts came into view, and Nick forgot about the pain in his ankle and everything else as he took in the breathtaking view of Hogwarts Castle by moonlight, all dark towers and turrets and brightly lit windows. It sat behind a lake, the water of which was still and black and reflecting Hogwarts itself, so that two Hogwarts' – one upright, one upside down – stared back at the first years. Nick made a soft sound of amazement.

They took boats across the lake, four students in each one. Nick sat with Jon and two other silent first years, a blond girl and a dark-haired boy, as the boat carried them towards the majestic castle.

They glided into an underground cavern and clambered off the boats onto a pebbly shore, then formed lines up to a great oak door. The giant man knocked loudly, and the door opened almost at once.

It was Professor McGonagall, wearing emerald green robes again.

"Firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the big man said.

"Thank you, Hagrid, I will take them from here," Professor McGonagall said briskly, and beckoned to the students. They all followed her into a small chamber and then she left them there with instructions to smarten themselves up. Her eyes lingered on Nick's wild red hair, which he smoothed down self-consciously.

Then they waited, silent and fidgeting.

At last, Professor McGonagall returned to lead them out into an enormous hall. There were four long tables full of students, and a table on a dais for the staff. A sea of eyes stared at the long line of first years as they shuffled their way towards the front of the hall. There sat a tiny stool which was holding up one of the rattiest, filthiest hats Nick had ever seen.

One of the oddest too, Nick thought, as he watched the ugly hat open a mouth-like tear near its brim and begin to sing. The song was lively and bright, and Nick found himself grinning broadly as the Sorting Hat sang about the Houses and the founders and itself. There was a long round of applause when it fell silent, and it bowed to each of the four student tables and went still.

Professor McGonagall approached with a long scroll and unrolled it, calling out a name.

"Aubrey, Leila!"

Leila Aubrey stumbled out of line and sat on the stool as she placed the Hat on her head. There was a moment of expectant silence, and then the Hat shouted out Leila's new House.

"RAVENCLAW!"

And the Sorting continued.

"Barbary, Antilles!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Beamish, Rothsgore!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"How'd you like that name?" Jon muttered into Nick's ear, and Nick shook his head, grinning.

"Bell, Katie!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

And then came, "Bonham, Jonathan!"

Jon looked stark white, as if he were contemplating losing his lunch there on the floor. Nick gave him a shove out of line, and he stumbled up to the stool looking very un-Gryffindor-like.

The Hat deliberated for a moment before shouting,

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Jon, looking much relieved, moved off to join the other new Gryffindors.

They moved through the names. For a moment there was a line of Ravenclaws, _Carmichael, Eddie_ and _Chambers, Samuel_, and an exceedingly pretty girl called _Chang, Cho._

Then Dingle, Harold was sorted into Gryffindor, to delighted whoops from the table. Dorny, Joshua went to Hufflepuff; Edgecombe, Marietta into Ravenclaw.

Gryffindor exploded into cheers once again as Forbisher, Victoria joined their ranks, hurrying to sit beside Harold Dingle and Katie Bell.

Haack, Leanne joined Katie and Victoria in Gryffindor, and then Harper, Lucas went into Slytherin.

"McLaggen, Cormac!"

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Nantu, Anna!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

"Norton, Millana!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Ollerton, Taria!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Parkin, Jasmine!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

And then, finally…

"Potter, Nicolas!"

Nick stepped forward on trembling legs. Like wind through trees, a hissing whisper spread throughout the hall, almost inaudible. Blushing brightly, Nick dropped onto the stool and shoved the Hat on his head, relieved to block out the sight of the students craning to get a good look at him.

Then a small voice spoke in his ear.

"_My my,"_ the Hat said musingly, and Nick jumped. _"Determined, brave, ambitious. Not a bad mind, either, and loyalty in spades. You want to prove yourself to others."_

"_Can I be in Gryffindor?"_ Nick thought, thinking of his friend sitting at the Gryffindor table.

"_Are you sure? You would also fit in Slytherin, quite well I might add."_

"_But my friend…"_

"_Very well, but only because you fit in Gryffindor just as well."_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Nick jumped off the chair and rushed towards the Gryffindor table, who cheered the loudest yet.

* * *

Midnight came and went, and Rocky didn't.

There was no letter from Nick that night.

* * *


	5. On Silent Feet

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** See chapter one.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**Chapter Five:** On Silent Feet

**

* * *

**

From the very moment Nick left the Gryffindor common room the next day, whispers followed him wherever he went, to his own intense dismay. He really wished they'd leave him alone, because he'd already gotten lost twice and he really didn't want to do it again.

Magic was astonishingly complicated, Nick thought rather desperately. At first, he hadn't quite understood just how much, until he discovered that he was supposed to find his classes amongst the eight floors, numerous sub-floors, towers, and the one-hundred and forty-two staircases that Hogwarts contained.

And then there were the classes themselves, if and when you managed to find them. There was Transfiguration taught by Professor McGonagall herself, Charms taught by the tiny, white-haired Professor Flitwick, History of Magic, which was the only class at Hogwarts that was really truly taught by a _ghost_, and numerous other classes he couldn't remember unless he had his nose in his schedule.

But there was one he would never forget, and that was Potions. At the feast, Nick had gotten the feeling that the Potions Professor, Severus Snape, didn't like him. He was quite right, although _didn't like_ was like saying being crushed by a falling boulder might hurt a bit.

Snape didn't dislike Nick, he _hated _him.

From the first time Nick stepped into Snape's class, the Professor seemed out to get him. Like little Professor Flitwick, he started his class with a roll call.

He paused when he reached Nick's name.

"Nicolas Potter," he murmured, eyes lifting to stare into Nick's own. "Our new…celebrity."

The Gryffindors were taking this class with the Slytherins, who tittered quietly at the comment from the other side of the dungeon room.

"Here, sir," Nick said uncertainly. Snape looked at him for a long moment from deadened black eyes, then turned back to his parchment to finish calling names.

When he was done, he began to speak.

"You are here," he murmured softly, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

The class was silent, holding its breath.

"Potter!" Snape snapped, and Nick jumped at the suddenly loud voice. "What would I get if I mixed powdered porcupine quills with thickened armadillo bile?"

Nick froze up, wide-eyed. He'd read much of his course books, but he hadn't memorized them by any means.

"I don't know, sir," he said warily.

"No? Let's try again then, shall we? What would happen if one were to add mandrake blood to the Basic Boil Remover?"

Nick hurriedly scanned his mind, desperately trying to come up with an answer.

"I don't know, sir," he again said, helplessly.

"Tut tut, Potter. Fame clearly isn't everything, is it?" It was phrased as a question, but it seemed more like a statement to Nick. "Once more, Potter," Snape whispered, his black eyes boring into Nick's own. "What is the easiest way to identify Atropa Belladonna? Surely you can answer that?"

Nick hazarded a wild guess.

"By their leaves?"

Snape straightened. "Is that a question or an answer, Potter?"

"An answer," Nick replied bravely.

"It was not a correct one," Snape said, and Nick slumped a little. "For your information, Potter, powdered porcupine quills and thickened armadillo bile make a remarkably powerful thickening agent. If ingested, such a mixture would render the stomach acids quite solid. The Basic Boil Remover is a very stable and inert potion. If one were to add mandrake blood, it would do nothing aside from making an expensive mud. And lastly, Atropa Belladonna is most easily identified by its dark berries, but when young and out of season it can also be identified by its distinctive bell-like leaves. It is also known as Deadly Nightshade."

The class was silent.

"Well?" Snape demanded. "Why aren't you writing that down?"

There was a mad scramble for parchment and quills.

The remainder of the week was full of busy work and ended in exhaustion, so it was Sunday before Nick got a chance to send a letter to his brother.

* * *

Harry spent the week obediently remaining near the house. On Sunday, his restriction was lifted slightly enough for him to take a walk around the block again, as long as he was back at a certain time. Relieved at the freedom, Harry left at a run.

He had never thrived as other kids his age did, but perhaps that worked in his favour. He was small and thin, but he was also a very fast runner.

Where the last time it had taken him quite a while to reach the burned out husk of a lot, today it took him mere minutes, and sure enough, the boy was there. Harry had suspected he would be, since he'd been expelled too.

"Hi," Harry said, walking straight up to him and plopping down on the other wooden beam.

"What do _you_ want?" the boy said rudely.

"I just got off restriction," Harry explained breezily. "Thought I'd stop by."

"How'd you know where I live?" the boy asked suspiciously.

"Seen you around," Harry said. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"None of your business," was the hard reply.

"I'm Harry, then," Harry said.

"Alex."

"Short for Alexander?"

"Alessandro, actually," Alex said. "Not that it's your business. Short for Harold?"

"Just Harry, actually," Harry informed him, grinning wickedly. "Not that it's your business."

Alex looked at him with grudging respect.

"Yeah," he said, and frowned maybe a little less.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm sorry I couldn't write earlier this week. I had so much to do! You wouldn't believe the school, it's in a magic castle and the staircases move and the paintings move and I think the suits of armour can walk too. Classes are fun but some of them are bad. There's one teacher called Snape who just hates me. He's horrible, asking me questions I certainly couldn't answer on my very first day._

_History of Magic is taught by Professor Binns, a ghost! He's deadly dull, hardly talks at all about anything but goblin wars and makes even those dead boring._

_I don't have very much time, so I have to go, but write back, all right?_

_Sorry again,_

_Nick_

* * *

_Hey Nick,_

_You won't believe it. First day of school I decked another kid and got expelled. I'm in huge trouble._

_I can't wait to go to Hogwarts. A castle, you say? Unbelievable._

_Don't let Snape get you down, he sounds like a right bear. Don't worry about the late letter._

_Harry_

* * *

"Let's do it," Harry mumbled, and Alex knelt on the icy ground. Harry stepped gingerly on Alex's supporting hand and knee, balancing carefully as he worked a penknife into the seam between window and frame.

It was the work of a moment to crack open the window and carefully slide it fully open. He glanced down at Alex, kneeling in the dark, and nodded. Alex boosted him carefully up through the window, and Harry folded himself up and twisted through, landing lightly on his stocking-clad feet in the downstairs bathroom. Harry glanced around, noting a pretty soap holder and a painting on the wall of a seascape.

He eased gingerly through the downstairs rooms, investigating the silverware drawers and china cabinets. He picked up what looked like a silver – or at least silver-coated – candlestick holder, and some very heavy fancy bookends from the shelves. He snagged a few ornaments from the mantle and a particularly pretty statue of a tiny rearing horse, which looked like it was carved from ivory. These things went directly into his pack and he left as silently as he'd come. Alex held him up while he closed the window as best he could, and then the two young boys fled into the night, flushed with success.

"Let me see," Alex demanded when they were far enough away, and Harry willingly gave over the pack. It wasn't as if he could keep any of it, anyway. "Good bit," Alex mumbled, examining the ivory horse closely.

"Thanks," he said wryly, shoving his hands in his pockets. It was quite cold. "All right?"

"Yeah. Here," Alex said, upending the back. The candle holder, bookends, ornaments, and ivory horse all clattered onto the ground. Harry winced a bit and accepted the pack that Alex offered him.

"Night then," Harry sighed, and Alex nodded, stuffing the stolen objects into his pockets, and then slid away into the cold darkness.

Harry made his long, lonely way home.

* * *

In October, Nick tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team despite being only a first year. The only spots open were the two Beater positions, and although the positions went to a pair of redheaded twins related to the Captain and Seeker, Nick held his own on a broom. The seventh year Captain, Charlie Weasley, encouraged Nick to try out for Chaser and Seeker the next year, when the spots would open up again.

In the meantime, Nick delightedly started owling Gringotts for his monthly allowance, so when he returned to Diagon Alley for his next school year he'd be able to afford his own broom.

* * *

For Christmas, Harry bought Nicolas a model of Big Ben made of chocolate, and used stolen money to do it.

Nick bought Harry a coin purse by owl order from _Every Bag_, with a note that told his younger brother of his embarrassing story from when he himself got money for the first time. He explained how it worked, how you could put in much more than it appeared, when looking at it from the outside, and Harry thought that would be a very neat thing for his less-than-legal activities.

He didn't tell his brother that, of course.

The coin purse was brown leather and beaded and feathered, like something from a Native American tribe. It had a pair of loops on the back that slid onto a belt, so the purse pressed against Harry's hip, almost like a hip flask. It was flat but very soft and had a neat flap that shut with a bone fragment.

Harry bought a belt to use it on, and also used stolen money to do it.

Nick's year passed uneventfully, with the brothers exchanging short but heartfelt notes when Nick had a chance to send Rocky over the long distance. Until June when Nick returned to the Dursleys.

On London's outskirts, Harry had become an adept thief. He had to be careful with what he kept and bought with his stolen goods and money, but he was able to keep the occasional small item. In accordance with the Native American style coin purse Nick had bought him, he'd found and kept a similarly styled fanged necklace. It was too uncomfortable to actually wear beneath his clothes, but he kept it neatly folded inside the coin purse itself as a keepsake.

In May, Harry was nearly suspended for painting the inside of the boys' bathroom, and got away on a mere technicality, since the unseen witness hadn't been able to prove it was him. And although he'd only used cheap paints, the elaborate artwork Harry had graffitied on the inside of the bathroom never faded, and the strings of foul language remained in elaborate letters on David Anthony's Secondary School – even when they painted over it – until they gave in and replaced the bathroom wall entirely.

The school had told Pat and Donna their suspicions, of course, and so that was the end of that. Michael had been livid when he'd come to pick him up, and for the first time that Harry could remember, there wasn't another foster family to take him in. Instead, Michael took him back to St. Colonus's Children's Home, where he'd been left on the doorstep all those years ago.

* * *

* * *


	6. The Brother Wand

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary: **In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.  
**  
Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**  
Notes & Caveats:** See chapter one.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

Chapter Six:

The Brother Wand

* * *

At the end of June, Nick reluctantly boarded the school train, dreading his return to the Dursleys. The year had been filled with unimaginable delights and new friends and adventures. The thought that the year was ending, and his time in lessons were to be replaced with chores and misery, was a hollow and unhappy one.

Regardless, he managed to put the thought out of his mind for the duration of the journey. Instead, he spoke cheerfully with his house year mates and teased Katie Bell, his only true competition for the Chaser's position in the oncoming year.

Despite all of his fervent wishing, however, the day fled past rapidly and the train pulled up at King's Cross in the late afternoon.

He loitered with his friends while they waited for their families, bidding them all goodbye as they left the station, cheerfully babbling about their year, so that Nick was the last of them to leave Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

Uncle Vernon was waiting for him on the other side of the gateway, his face a dark shade of purple and sweating profusely in the hot afternoon sun. He beckoned angrily at Nick when he saw him, face twisting furiously.

"Keeping us waiting," he spat when Nick got close enough. "Like a no good ruffian!"

Such was the life of Nicolas Potter.

Sighing, Nick followed his uncle away from the station.

* * *

Harry slipped nimble fingers into the loose pocket of an oblivious man's jacket. They snagged on a few paper notes and he lifted them expertly away, not even touching the fabric. The man continued reading his papers, not having felt a thing.

As Harry slid through the crowd, pushing the notes into his own pocket, he made his way to the edge of the market square where Alex was fidgeting impatiently, having already finished nicking his own target's pockets.

Harry pulled out the money, counting out a fiver and three one-pound notes. Alex grinned broadly at him from his darkly-tanned face, triumphantly fingering a twenty-pound note that peeked from beneath his long sleeves. Harry blew out a heavy sigh, the air ruffling his fringe.

"Want some ice cream?" Alex asked, nodding at the shop across the way. Harry's stomach growled, and he sniffed at the aroma of freshly baked waffle cones.

"Yeah," he said, pocketing the money again. "Come on, then."

The two boys wound their way through the crowd to the ice cream shop across the way, where Harry got double chocolate in a waffle cone and Alex double strawberry, also with a waffle cone. They sat on the covered tables outside, watching the crowd as they ate. They didn't speak much, and when they did it was in low murmurs. Mostly they just watched the daylight fade and the people hurry to their destinations.

Eventually they finished their ice creams, but even then they stayed there, with their eyes alert and watchful, until full darkness fell. Only then did Harry rise, stretching slightly, and pull a thin wad of money from his pocket, their total profit for the day's work.

"Time to go," he mumbled to Alex, and hunched his shoulders. Alex smiled at him, eyes glittering wickedly in the dim light of a streetlamp a few yards away.

"See you then," Alex replied, and Harry nodded and turned away, walking quietly down the road towards the main streets where he would flag down a cab. Alex watched him go, fiddling with his napkin. His face was completely emotionless.

On the main street, Harry put on a trembling expression and managed a nervous wave in a passing cab's direction. The driver spotted him and slowed, and Harry moved towards it, his formerly assured stride suddenly stumbling and very young.

"Can you take me home?" he asked when the driver got out of the car. "I got some money." Harry gave the man the address of a house a street over from St. Colonus's, holding out a thin wad of cash.

"Certainly, son," the driver said assuredly, while opening the back door of the cab. "Get right in, I'll take you there. What are you doing out here so late, and where are your parents?"

"I'm visiting my uncle," Harry lied guilelessly, gesturing subtly at a man standing near the corner. "He's making sure I'm off all right."

"Ah, very good," the driver said, waving a hand at Harry's so-called 'uncle'. The man gave a surprised wave back. Harry gulped and jumped in the cab.

The driver dropped him off in front of the address Harry had given him, a plain little house with a neglected garden and lawn. The owners spent their summers in the tropics and Harry had found the key they'd left in the flowerpot for the housekeeper. He got out of the cab and paid the driver, thanking him timidly, then hurried up the walk and unlocked the door. He turned and waved at the cab driver, and the man waved back. Harry entered the house and closed the door, watching through the window as the cab drove away.

Sighing, Harry opened the door again and stepped out, locking the house back up. Then he leaned out over the grass, unwilling to walk on it and press footprints in the soft earth, and shoved the key into its spot in the flowerpot, where the housekeeper would find it when she came to feed the cat in the morning. Harry then made his way down the walk, onto the street, and back to St. Colonus's.

Nick would be home by now, he thought, brightening. There would hopefully be a letter waiting for Harry when he got back.

His steps quickened at the thought.

_

* * *

_

Hi Harry,

_I got home tonight and of course, I had to mow the lawn right away. Apparently there's a garden competition coming up and Aunt Petunia wants to win it. Not that __**she'll**__ win it, since I'll be the one doing all the work._

_Anyways, how are you? Glad that school is out for the summer? I can't wait until next year, when we're both on the Hogwarts Express!_

_Your brother,_

_Nick_

_

* * *

_

Hey Nick,

_I take it you can't do magic out of school or something? Otherwise, couldn't you just wave your wand and have the lawn done in a heartbeat?_

_I'm so glad school is out for the year, but summers are really boring. Only one month until my letter comes though._

_I'll see you on the Express,_

_Harry_

* * *

"Michael?" Harry asked, startled. He paused at the foot of the stairs, taking in the sight of his tall social worker. Michael turned, smiling.

"Hello Harry," he said. "How are you doing?"

"Good, thanks," Harry replied, coming the rest of the way into the room. "What's going on?"

"I'd like to introduce you to someone," Michael said, smiling even wider. "This is Minerva McGonagall…she's here because you've been accepted at a private school for talented children in Scotland."

"_Oh,"_ Harry said, suddenly speechless. He rapidly calculated in his head to figure out the date. The days tended to blur together in the summer, but he realized after a moment's thought that it was the 25th of July, a mere six days until his eleventh birthday. His heart was immediately beating too hard from excitement.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," the tall, severe woman said to him. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress. I've come for your orientation meeting."

"I – hello, Professor," Harry said, feeling flustered and not at all like himself. "Pleased to meet you." Within a moment, Harry managed an expression of charming innocence, stretching his mouth into a shy smile.

"And you, Mr. Potter," the Professor said.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Michael said, moving towards the door. "And Harry…"

Harry looked up at Michael's face as he leaned close, whispering in his ear.

"Try to make this work, all right?"

Harry nodded almost imperceptibly, and Michael shut the door of St. Colonus's main office as he left.

"This should be one of my easier orientations," Professor McGonagall said wryly. "You've been receiving letters from your brother, I trust?"

"Yes," Harry nodded, "and a couple of visits from a man too."

"Yes, the Headmaster did say he was sending someone to explain your brother's letters," the Professor said briskly. "So, we shall get right to it. You'll need school supplies for certain, of course, so we shall start with that. Have you ever heard of Apparating?"

"No," Harry said blankly.

"It is a magical system of transportation, something like what you might call _teleporting_, I believe."

"Oh, like what that man did," Harry said, brightening with understanding. "Just…vanished. Kind of popped away."

"Yes, that's it exactly," the Professor said. "There is a variation called Side-Along, where one licensed Apparation practitioner Apparates themselves and a passenger to their destination. This is mostly used for underage witches and wizards such as yourself. It's quite simple, just take my arm and I'll do the rest."

Harry complied, while opening his mouth as he did so.

"You're coming with me?"

"Of course," the Professor said crisply. "This is a very abrupt change, even for one such as yourself, Mr. Potter. You will certainly need things explained to you during your first foray into the magical world."

Harry wanted to snap at her, tell her he had never needed anyone or anything, but a small instinct held his mouth closed. He did not want to make an enemy of this woman, despite the fact that her responsibility over him rankled deeply.

Before he finished the thought in its entirety, a sensation enveloped him that was not unlike being squeezed through a very tight rubber tube, stealing the breath from his lungs. His ears popped and by the time they had rematerialized a split-second later, his fingers and toes were tingling.

He took a moment to catch his breath, before lifting his gaze. They had appeared in a dingy little room that was interesting only by its lack of anything interesting. It was, in fact, very like a wooden box. There were no furnishings of any sort, and because of that the sole door looked bizarrely out of place.

The door however, led to a place of far more interest to Harry.

"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," McGonagall said dryly, as she opened the door. "A gateway between the Muggle world and the Wizarding world."

"Muggle," Harry murmured, the word resonating in his memory. "I think Nicolas mentioned those, once. They're people like Michael, right? That don't have any magic of their own?"

"Yes, exactly that," McGonagall said, ushering him inside the main room of the Leaky Cauldron. It was, as Harry quickly realized, a pub. It was dimly lit and full of mismatched tables, with the noise level a low, indistinct murmur. Behind the bar, an old bald man caught sight of them and smiled a toothless grin.

"Just passing through, Tom," McGonagall interjected quickly, seeing the old man make a movement towards them. "We'll return for lunch, however, as usual."

"Right then, Professor," Tom the barman said cheerfully. "I'll 'ave it ready for you."

"Thank you," McGonagall said. "Come along then…"

She trailed off, and Harry looked at her curiously. It was almost as if she'd meant to say something…perhaps his name? But she apparently had decided against it.

Harry filed that away for later and did as she had asked, by following her through the dim pub and towards the back door, which opened into a tiny stone-paved yard surrounded by a high brick wall. There was nothing there but a pair of old, dented dustbins, empty of any rubbish.

Harry looked around in interest. Nick's letters from the previous summer had mentioned the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley, but Harry didn't remember there being anything about how to get there.

However, the mystery was quickly solved when McGonagall took out what had to be her wand and tapped a brick, making the wall seem to positively melt away.

Harry forced his jaw to stay closed despite a strong urge to gape like an idiot, because Diagon Alley was everything Nick had said it was and a lot more besides.

He wanted nothing so much as to have a dozen pairs of eyes that could take in everything at once, but a faint crawling sensation over his scalp alerted him to McGonagall's gimlet gaze. She was watching him in amusement, as if knowing what he was thinking.

Harry swallowed down his instinctive glaring expression and stared back at her, blank-faced.

After a moment's pause where they regarded each other thoughtfully, McGonagall finally gestured that they move along. Harry looked at as much as he could without moving his head too obviously.

When McGonagall said, "Gringotts first," Harry remembered Nick's letter from Christmas detailing his trip to the wizard bank, and the gift he'd sent along with it. Harry's mouth curled into a silly little smile all on its own, which he had to force away when McGonagall raised a brow at him in question.

"Nick told me about Gringotts," he reluctantly explained when she didn't look away. "He sent me a coin purse for Christmas."

"That was very thoughtful of him," McGonagall said, smiling a little. Harry shrugged.

He kept his composure through his first sighting of a goblin, the identification, and even the surprising key-bonding process, but during the cart ride his façade cracked and let out a glimpse of the little boy inside.

The cart ride was exactly as Nick had described. It was fast and wild and exhilarating, and Harry's legs trembled when he finally stumbled out of the cart at his and Nick's shared vault, with his heart pounding from the rush. He couldn't stop smiling, not even at the goblin's rough demand for his key.

"You have a forty Galleon limit," the goblin said grouchily when he unlocked and opened the heavy vault door. Harry glanced at him briefly before turning back to his vault, where piles of gold, silver, and bronze glimmered in dim torchlight.

"Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts," McGonagall explained, moving over to a chest-high mound of gold coins. "The gold ones here are Galleons. There are seventeen silver Sickles to one Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. Here, forty Galleons."

"Do I need it all?" Harry asked in disbelief, cradling his hands together to hold the large pile of gold. Even both hands couldn't hold it all though, and several coins fell to the floor, where they hit with small ringing sounds.

"Likely not," McGonagall explained, "but it's always a good idea to have some money put away for the year, just in case. You might need to owl order replacement supplies, for example."

"Oh," Harry said in realization, and fumbled to take his coin purse out of his pocket. The forty Galleons fit in easily, without even a lump to show for it, and Harry undid his belt to put the purse on properly. It fit neatly against the bony protrusion of his hip, small, unremarkable, and charmed with a dozen powerful anti-pick pocketing charms.

It abruptly occurred to Harry that he should really figure out a way around those spells. Might come in handy, after all, the ability to pick a wizard's pockets – or purse as the case might be.

"Come along then," McGonagall said, as she led him back to the cart. The journey back up to the ground-level of the bank was silent, although Harry thought that was rather required of them, since the wind would have blown away their conversation anyway.

After they left the bank, Harry pulled out the list of supplies that had come with the letter Professor McGonagall had delivered for him. She had said something about St. Colonus's being a high-traffic area for Muggles and therefore off-limits to official owls.

Next, Professor McGonagall took him to a shop full of magical bags, purported to hold _every bag of every size, shape, and colour!_, where McGonagall let him pick out a shoulder bag for his textbooks.

Then they went to a store that sold magical trunks, where Harry picked out one made of smooth, pale golden wood with gold hinges and clasps, and a huge, magical lock. Like the coin purse Nick had bought him, it too was bigger inside than it looked from the outside, and Harry thought that the giant, old-fashioned lock couldn't _possibly_ keep out anyone who knew how to wield even the simplest lock pick. Seeming to pick up on his disbelief, McGonagall reassured Harry that the lock was reinforced with magic, and that not even the most skilled would-be robber could get in.

Harry wasn't sure, since he thought that if there was a way to put spells _on_ something, surely there was a way to take the same spells _off_. With that thought in mind, Harry decided to learn how to get past any lock in the world, so he would know how to make the same thing impossible with his own locks.

With a trunk purchased and hastily charmed to have wheels and roll along behind him, Harry followed Professor McGonagall as she led him to the bookstore to buy Harry's textbooks. Harry's first impression was amazement at the sheer _size_ of the shop. From the outside front, Harry thought the shop should have been a smallish size, but the reality couldn't have been more different. He supposed, that like his coin purse and new trunk, the bookshop could fit a lot more inside than it looked like from the outside.

More shelves than Harry could count lined the walls and zigzagged haphazardly through the shop. The setup turned what was originally a spacious place into a cramped and disorganized mess, which radiated a strange sort of charm.

And the shop itself was nothing compared to the books it housed. He remembered Nick expounding on the books that he'd seen and wished he could have bought. This was something that had struck Harry as strange at the time, because his brother didn't seem to be the bookish type. Now that Harry was here he could see exactly what his brother had meant. There were books on every kind of magical subject imaginable, from planting Snapdragons without getting bitten to common household charms and guides on dueling.

Harry used six Galleons of his remaining money to pick out a small pile of thick books that weren't required for school. There was one called _Common Annoyances_ that promised simple curses for all circumstances. After looking at the book, Harry fantasized about giving Michael a painful bout of full-body acne in revenge for all those mid-year foster home changes.

McGonagall explained to him what he needed from the apothecary, _Slug and Jiggers_. She led him directly to the counter and asked for a Hogwarts first year's kit, and the man obligingly fetched a wooden case from the back, already filled with the required ingredients, while Harry tried to keep his expression from twisting into a grimace of distaste.

Then they went to the apothecary's partner shop, _Potions and Astronomy Supplies_, where he was outfitted with the tools needed to make potions. He picked out a nice mortar and pestle, and a set of brass scales and a pewter cauldron, and for Astronomy, a collapsible telescope.

Finally, they went to purchase his wand.

It was the furthest shop from the entrance, tiny, sagging, and very dusty. Peeling gold letters announced _Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

A softly tinkling bell announced their entrance. The shop was dusty and the air pressed close against Harry's skin, tingling with magic.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice said, and Harry would have started if he hadn't already braced himself for such a thing. From out of nowhere, it seemed, a thin old man had appeared, staring at Harry through silvery eyes that instantly locked onto Harry's lightning bolt scar. "Mr. Harry Potter," the man – Ollivander - smiled. "The smallest Potter here at last."

Harry bristled at that. He hadn't yet grown as much as he could, he did realize that, but to call him the _smallest?_ He straightened his spine and lifted his chin.

"Hello," he returned, a little stiffly. He felt that Ollivander was staring at him with far too much intensity.

"I've met your brother already," Ollivander murmured, stepping closer. "Yes, white oak and phoenix feather with a penchant for transfiguration. A very fine wand indeed."

Harry blinked and felt his sour mood lift a little at this unexpected bit of information about his brother. He leaned forward slightly, fascinated.

"You remember that?" he asked curiously. Ollivander gave a wide but slightly creepy smile.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter," Ollivander whispered. "Every single one."

"My parents' wands, too?" Harry asked, feeling a spark of eagerness.

"Yes," Ollivander said. "Your father was chosen by a mahogany and dragon heartstring wand. Eleven inches, pliable, and very powerful. Like your brother's wand, it had a strong affinity for transfiguration. Your mother, however, found herself with a willow and unicorn tail hair wand, ten and a quarter inches, a nice wand for delicate charm work."

"Perhaps we should get young Mr. Potter a wand of his own, Mr. Ollivander?" McGonagall asked, sounding slightly impatient. Ollivander blinked and once again smiled that creepy smile.

"Yes, of course," Ollivander said. He reached a long arm past Harry's ear and pulled a box from the shelf behind him. "How about this one. Beech wood and dragon heartstring, nine inches long. Try."

Harry tried, but it was yanked out of his hand almost immediately, only to be replaced by a seven inch maple and phoenix feather, then by an eight-and-a-half inch ebony and unicorn hair. Each of these wands and their successors were quickly yanked out of his hand and tossed onto a pile Harry had begun to think of as the _reject_ pile, and said pile continued to grow as the afternoon wore on.

As the pile grew bigger, Ollivander grew happier, and dare he even think it, creepier. He seemed almost giddy as he handed Harry wand after wand and snatched them away again, just as fast.

Until, at last, Ollivander paused and rubbed his chin.

"Well yes, now why didn't I think of it before," he muttered, and turned away, vanishing into the shadows of the shelves. Harry looked at McGonagall in surprised confusion. She looked back at him with much the same expression.

Ollivander reappeared with a positively dust-covered box, handling it almost reverently as he set it down to open it. He then pulled out a slender wand made of an extremely pale, creamy white wood.

"Holly and phoenix feather," Ollivander said, gently turning the wand around to hand it to Harry, handle first. "Eleven inches," he continued as Harry took it, and once he did Harry didn't know if Ollivander kept speaking, because all his attention was suddenly on the pale wooden wand in his hand.

It was warm while the other wands had been inert, just sticks in his grasp. This one felt positively magical, almost alive. It shivered as he closed his fingers around it, and when he glanced up it almost seemed like the wand had made the room brighter.

Ollivander was looking at him expectantly, so Harry flicked the wand, despite knowing it was already his. It sent a shower of white sparks from its tip, sending the scudding shadows flickering over the walls.

"Oh, bravo," Ollivander said, looking dead pleased. "Yes, very good indeed, and yet how curious. How very, very curious…"

Harry barely heard him, transfixed by the feel of his wand in his hand. McGonagall had to nudge him in order for him to remember that he had to pay. He opened the purse on his hip, pulled out seven gold Galleons, and handed them to the old man.

As he and McGonagall were leaving, Ollivander spoke up one last time.

"It's a curious match, young Mr. Potter," he said, his voice low and ominous. "Curious because I've sold one other wand very like yours, in that it contains a core feather from the same phoenix that supplied yours. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, a very powerful wand. The wand, in fact, that gave you – and your brother – the scars on your faces."

Harry suddenly felt short of breath as he stared back at the creepy old man.

"Curious also," Ollivander continued, "that it would choose you over your brother. I wonder why that is?" he smiled. "Good day, Mr. Potter. I expect I'll see you again."

With that, Harry found himself out on the cobbled street with McGonagall by his side, the door closed tight behind him. He let out a shuddering breath and stared at the wand he still held. It looked completely innocent, the pale holly wood gleaming softly in the wavering daylight.

"Mr. Potter?" McGonagall murmured, and Harry shook himself.

"All done?" he asked, forcing his voice to be casual.

"Nearly," she replied, after regarding him closely for a moment. "One last stop. I told your brother this when I brought him here last year. We use owls for postal services, as you well know, and it is a very smart purchase for any young witch or wizard, a good post owl. I would highly recommend one, so long as you keep it under the mandatory charms, since you live in a Muggle neighbourhood. I think you'll find an owl a most useful thing."

Harry thought of Rocky and was nearly blindsided by the longing for an owl of his own.

"I – yes, I would like to have an owl."

"This way then," McGonagall said, sweeping away back up the alleyway. The shop she entered was a pungent one, although not nauseating like the apothecary had been. It was lined with the most bizarre animals Harry had ever seen, and he couldn't resist examining them all for a moment. As he did so, McGonagall walked up to the counter and started speaking to the man behind it in low tones.

After a moment, she beckoned to Harry, leading him towards the back, where cage after cage contained owls of every size and shape, from the tiniest of Scops-Owls to Screech Owls as long as Harry's arm.

McGonagall led Harry to the far back.

"New arrivals," she explained, as she indicated a row of cages. "Armadale told me they've managed to get a Snowy in. Ah, here she is."

She was the most beautiful owl Harry had ever seen, staring at him with large amber eyes. Harry knew at once that he had to have her. His expression must have given him away because McGonagall smiled at him, genuinely, and then gestured to the shop assistant.

* * *

True to his word, Tom had two steaming plates of shepherd's pie waiting for them back at the Leaky Cauldron when they returned. Hungry from the day, Harry dug in willingly, but barely tasted his food. His mind was spinning with what Ollivander had said. It hadn't made any _sense_.

"Something on your mind, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked, setting down her fork.

"No Professor," he replied automatically, then changed his mind. "Well, yes. I don't understand what Mr. Ollivander was trying to tell me."

"Ollivander enjoys confusing young children…and everyone else, for that matter. He cultivates an unsettling persona. I wouldn't take it personally, if I were you, nor would I give it much thought."

"Oh," Harry said, not sure what to think about that. "So, he didn't really mean anything when he told me it was strange that my wand picked me instead of my brother?"

"I'm sure he did mean something," McGonagall replied. "But I'm equally sure it would have no impact on your life if you were to know. Dismiss it from your mind, Harry. It makes no difference."

"All right," Harry acquiesced, but the incident stayed in his mind for a long time to come.

After they finished eating, McGonagall helped him sort out his purchases. His books and school supplies went into his new wooden trunk, which was then locked. The lock was magical, of course, set to open to one key and one key only, which Harry placed on the same chain that his Gringotts key was on. This would give it the same properties as the key to his vault, if only because the vault key would drag his trunk key along with it.

Then McGonagall placed the snowy owl and her cage under a variant of the Disillusionment Charm, according to McGonagall herself, and also a silencing charm. These charms would ensure that the workers in St. Colonus's overlooked the owl entirely.

"Don't forget that this is a post owl," McGonagall warned him seriously. "She's not a pet. Treat her as you would a person, and you will be aptly rewarded. The cage is her home, not her prison."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, blinking. He glanced at the owl and felt a tendril of warmth for her.

Harry then accepted McGonagall's offered arm, and they Disapparated back to the main office with a _crack_.

"There you are!" Michael said, having opened the door at the sound. "Where have you _been_, I – "

McGonagall waved her wand discretely, and Michael went silent.

"We had a very informative meeting, Mr. Rider," McGonagall said briskly. "Everything seems to be in order, so I shall take my leave of you both. Until September, Mr. Potter."

"Bye Professor," Harry said, still staring at Michael speculatively. His eyes were glazed, and he didn't even blink when McGonagall vanished.

Harry snapped his fingers under Michael's nose.

"Hey," he said. "Wake up."

"Oh, very good," Michael said, evidently in response to McGonagall's last sentence. "Excellent, I'll have him at the train station on September the first. Thank you very much, Professor McGonagall. Have an excellent evening."

"Er," Harry said, trying not to laugh. "I'll just…go up to the dorm, I think, Michael."

Michael was silent.

"Right," Harry muttered, and proceeded to drag his trunk to the door. As he closed it behind him, he heard Michael say, "Of course, Harry. That's a good idea."

Harry shook his head in bemusement.


	7. The Welcoming Feast

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary: **In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.  
**  
Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**  
Notes & Caveats:** See chapter one.

Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

* * *

**Chapter Seven: **The Welcoming Feast

* * *

"What platform was it again?" Michael asked, looking around uncertainly.

"Platform ten," Harry replied, injecting just the right amount of exasperation into his tone.

"Oh yes, of course," Michael said, still looking a bit lost.

"I'll be fine, Michael," Harry said bracingly. "Don't worry about me, it's just a school train. It leaves at eleven o' clock, so I should go."

"You already have your ticket?"

"Yes, the Professor brought it to me."

"Oh, right. Of course."

"Of course," Harry sighed. "I should go, now. I have thirty minutes and I want to get a good compartment."

"I'll wait for you to get on the train," Michael said.

"_Michael,"_ Harry said in exasperation. "You are not going to sit around here for a half an hour to watch me board a train. It's a _student train_ Michael, and they have guards. You have a job. You should go."

Harry used all the force and persuasiveness he could muster, and inflected his voice with it. Michael seemed to sag under the onslaught.

"Yes, you're right," he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I should get to work. You'll be all right here, by yourself?"

"Yes, Michael. I'll be fine."

"All right, then," Michael said, once more looking uncertain. Sighing, Harry stepped forward and gave the man a brusque hug. When he pulled away, Michael looked much calmer and more relaxed. "Very good," he said. "Have a good term."

"See you in June," Harry replied. "Goodbye."

He waved at his social worker as he left the station, then looked down at his ticket in relief.

"Platform nine and three quarters," he muttered under his breath. "Nick said the barrier…?"

He looked up at the barrier dividing platforms nine and ten, which seemed very solid and brick-like.

Harry glanced at his owl Hedwig, who was perched freely on top of his trunk.

"Ready, girl?" he breathed, and she bobbed her head silently. "All right, let's go."

Harry determinedly pushed his trolley directly at the brick barrier, building up speed. At the last second, he closed his eyes. A scent suddenly hit his nostrils, a tingling sort of smell, with layers of hot metal tracks and steam and underlying avian scents. It smelled like _magic_.

Harry opened his eyes, and took a deep breath of it.

* * *

"You'll be staying there for Christmas, I presume?" Aunt Petunia asked, her mouth twisting as she stood by, watching Nick haul his trunk from the boot.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he said indifferently, heaving hard. Abruptly, the trunk fell out of the boot with a clatter, and Nick winced. Rocky squawked irritably from his cage.

"Sorry, Rocky," Nick said apologetically, and his owl puffed his feathers out, his way of saying that Nick was most certainly not forgiven for waking him up during daylight hours.

"And the spring holidays?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Nick said wearily, shoving his trunk onto the trolley beside the car. "I won't see you until next summer. Have a good year. Goodbye."

Aunt Petunia didn't bother to respond as she and Uncle Vernon got back in the car and drove away. Letting out a breath in relief, Nick took hold of the trolley and wheeled it into the station, looking around for Jon or Katie or, most importantly, a smaller, black-haired boy with glasses.

He didn't see anyone he knew, and it was already eight minutes to eleven o'clock, so Nick hurriedly pushed his trunk over to the barrier and leaned against it casually. He fell through a second later and felt a broad smile stretch across his face. He'd _missed_ this world.

He stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the ocean of brightly-clothed people. He couldn't find Jon, since Jon was someone who got easily lost in a crowd, so he focused on searching for a certain boy with black hair. He spotted Cedric Diggory, now a fourth year, and Harold Dingle, who also had dark hair, plus several other dark-haired young boys. Even so, he didn't see any tell-tale glasses until he fought his way towards the train. There, sitting beside the tracks on top of his trunk with his legs swinging, was Harry.

Nick knew at once that it was him. It wasn't just the wild black hair or rectangular glasses, but the slight build that suggested he would one day have long legs and strong shoulders. It was the line of his spine and how his shoulders connected to his neck. It was because you could dye his hair red and give him a scar over his eye and he would look just like Nicolas himself.

Nick whooped in delighted joy and shoved his way through the crowd. They parted before him like butter around a hot knife and then his way was clear. There was his brother, standing in front of him with an expression of astonished happiness. Suddenly, they were flinging themselves at each other, colliding in an awkward, long-limbed hug that knocked Harry's glasses askew and set the two boys to laughing at themselves, sheepish and gleeful.

"Harry, Harry," Nick said over and over again, clutching at his brother's sleeves.

"Nick," Harry said, laughing. "Nicolas."

"You look just like me!" Nick exclaimed, fidgeting madly in his enthusiasm.

"Yes," Harry smiled, and then behind them the train whistled. Panicked but laughing, the two brothers both grabbed at Harry's trunk, which was sitting closest to the train, and heaved it aboard, then clambered back out to get Nick's. They were barely onboard before the train whistled again and began to inch forward. They stuck their heads out the open door and waved to the crowd on the platform, just for the fun of it, at nobody in particular and everyone at once. On either side of them, students hung out of windows and leaned out open doors, waving and calling out to loved ones, a wildly shifting sea of brightly coloured sleeves.

Then the train picked up speed and inched around the bend, and the platform was gone.

"Come on, let's find a compartment," Nick said, grabbing the handle of his trunk. He dragged it down the train, looking left and right until he spotted the compartment his friends were in, and then opened the door. "Hey," he said, poking his head in. There was a chorus of greetings back, and he led the way inside. "This is my brother, Harry," Nick said proudly. "Harry, this is Harold Dingle, Jonathan Bonham, and Cormac McLaggen. That's Katie Bell, Leanne Haack, and Victoria Frobisher over there. They're my house and year mates."

"Hello," Harry said, nodding at the introductions. "Pleased to meet you."

"Hi Harry," Katie smiled at him from the window seat. "Nick's told us a lot about you. Will you be in Gryffindor, do you think?"

"That's one of the Houses, right?" Harry asked uncertainly. Katie's jaw dropped and she turned to glare Nick, who looked abashed.

"You haven't told him about the _Houses? _Nick!"

"We haven't seen each other in ten years!" Nick said defensively. "We've been talking through letters, that's all. I guess I never got around to it."

"Ten years!" said one of the other girls, fair-haired and blue-eyed. That was Victoria, Harry thought, so that would make the slight brunette girl Leanne.

"I've been living in a series of foster homes, since our relatives would only take in one of us," Harry explained. "We were very young when it happened."

"But the Houses, Katie," Nick reminded her when she opened her mouth. "There's four, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. We're all Gryffindors."

"Gryffindor is far and away the best House," one of the boys said. Harry turned to him, forcing a smile with effort. "Cormac McLaggen," the boy informed him helpfully, reaching out a hand.

"Harry Potter," Harry replied, shaking it perfunctorily. "Then you must be Jonathan, yes? And Harold."

"Yes, I'm Jon," the brown-haired boy said, smiling, and Harold nodded his head in confirmation.

"Hi," Harry said, and went to start a conversation as he sat down, but he was interrupted by the door opening.

In the doorway there was a group of three boys, led by a boy not much taller than Harry himself, but he was colourless where Harry was dark. This boy had white blond hair of the sort normally only found on very young children, which was slicked back to show his pale and rather pointy face.

"You'll be Nicolas Potter, then?" the boy asked, looking straight at Harry's brother. "I'm Draco Malfoy. Yes, _those_ Malfoys."

"Oh, er…what other Malfoys are there?" Nick asked, perplexed.

"Yes, exactly," Malfoy said, lifting his chin. Harry blinked in astonishment. Beside him, Nick didn't look any better, especially when Malfoy stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "You're a Gryffindor," Malfoy said, making _Gryffindor_ sound like one would say _idiotic maggot_, as if it was something repulsive and pitiable, "but you must have _some_ taste. You don't have to associate with this riffraff any longer. I can help you there."

Until then, Nick had been gaping in stunned confusion, but Malfoy had made a mistake. When he got to _this riffraff_, he turned his silvery grey eyes directly onto Harry's serviceably worn Muggle clothing, with a sneer tautening his pale features.

Nick jumped to his feet, with a face like a thundercloud.

"I can choose who I make friends with for myself, thanks very much," he said furiously, "and I don't need a little upstart first-year like you to tell me how to do it."

There was a deathly silence, where Malfoy took a step back in surprise that quickly turned to anger. Behind him, his two goons cracked their knuckles menacingly.

"You'll regret that," Malfoy hissed hoarsely. "My father can make life very unpleasant for people like you."

"Regret not taking advice from a pipsqueak like you?" Nick asked viciously. "Someone who comes in and insults my brother? No, I'll never regret that."

Malfoy turned unpleasant eyes on Harry, who had gotten to his feet.

"You'll regret it," he swore again, this time staring straight at Harry. "I guarantee it."

"Get lost, pipsqueak," Jon said from behind Harry, having also gained his feet.

With one last black glare at them all, Draco Malfoy and his as-yet-unnamed sidekicks retreated, slamming the door shut behind them.

"What a little snot rag," Leanne said airily. "Good for you, Nick."

Nick blushed.

* * *

Harry would have described the rest of the trip as uneventful – if a magical train ride could pass uneventfully.

Perhaps it would be better to say that the remainder of the journey passed without major incident. Harry mostly listened to the second years' chatter, occasionally sharing a grin with his brother. At midday, the witch pulling the trolley rolled by, and Harry bought anything that looked interesting.

No one bothered them after Draco Malfoy, although many people craned their heads in their direction when they walked by. The afternoon slowly faded away and the three girls excused themselves to the toilet to change into their school robes, and the boys took turns doing the same while the others kept watch at the door. Harry's robes were the only ones without a patch or coloured tie – they were entirely black. Black lining, black tie; the older students told him that the colours would change only after his House had been announced.

The rest of the train journey seemed to pass swiftly now that they were in their robes. Within minutes, they could feel the train begin to slow, and a voice sounded through the train, instructing them to leave their belongings on the train. They would be taken to the school separately.

It was full dark when the train pulled up at the station. The darkness seemed to muffle the noise of the students and elevate the sense of tension and anticipation. Harry followed Nick off the train and onto the platform, which was lit with large hanging lanterns. The last quarter moon glowed fat in the sky, larger and closer than he'd ever seen it. The entire world seemed to be holding its breath.

Then a light caught Harry's eye. It was a torch, bobbing towards them in the darkness. As a collective whole, the student population turned to silently watch it approach, growing larger and brighter in the darkness.

The lantern came to a stop before them, the warm glow illuminating a broad, bearded face which towered above even the tallest seventh year.

"Firs' years," he called, voice booming over the students. "Firs' years, to me!"

"Go on, Harry," Nick whispered, nudging him. "We'll see you in the Great Hall." Harry took a step forward and nodded, then turned and made his way through the crowd to the towering man.

"Tha' e'ryone? Righ', follow me!"

The man turned and strode away, lantern held high. A trickle of students followed him, joining into a darkly clad river. Harry's senses were running riot – like Diagon Alley and Platform 9 ¾, the lands and woods around Hogwarts positively teemed with magic. He shivered in mixed excitement and dread – there was something inherently dangerous about this place.

Harry loved it.

The giant man led the first years down a rough forest path and around a bend. Harry was lucky and didn't encounter anything to trip him, but the boy beside him wasn't as fortunate. His foot caught on an exposed tree root and he stumbled, swearing inventively as he went down onto one knee.

"Bloody hell," Harry whispered, snickering. "I haven't even heard some of those."

Grumbling, the other boy managed to untangle himself and stood back up. He was tall and had very dark skin, at least from what Harry could see in the very dim light of the giant man's lantern.

"Harry Potter," Harry introduced himself, staring straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy glance at him.

"Blaise Zabini," came the whispered reply, after a pause. Then, "I didn't know there was another Potter."

"There is," Harry replied.

"What relation?"

"Younger brother."

There was another long pause as they moved quietly along the path, until, "A pleasure, Potter."

"Likewise," Harry whispered, smiling in the dark, and then there wasn't any more time for talking. They had just emerged from the woods onto the rocky shore of a lake, the water gleaming still and black in the moonlight, reflecting the many lit windows of an enormous, sprawling castle.

Harry's jaw dropped a little in awe.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," the giant man said in a low voice, while the students craned their heads back and stared.

There were boats moored on the lake's shore, twenty-six of them, small and wooden and flimsy looking. The giant man directed them towards the boats, four to each one. Harry clambered in with Zabini, a girl with blond pig-tails, and a plain, weedy-looking boy. When they were all situated, the shoddy-looking boats glided through the water by themselves in a long row, until the castle loomed above them, gigantic and intimidating, turrets stabbing at the dark, star-studded sky. That feeling of dreadful anticipation increased, until Harry was barely breathing.

They sailed right under the castle, through the strands of vines that obscured the entrance to a deep, underground cavern. The boats dragged themselves onto the pebbly shore at the base of a wide staircase, and they all clambered out and looked around in fascination. There was a set of double doors at the top; oak, towering and elaborate, which the giant man led them up to and knocked on three times, the sound thunderous in the silence.

It opened at once, revealing Professor McGonagall in another pair of emerald green robes, these ones much finer than the ones she'd worn to take Harry to Diagon Alley. Still the same, however, was the no-nonsense expression and the tight bun. She glared out over the group of students with a slightly malevolent air, one that said quite clearly, _don't cross me._

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," the giant man said, and the Professor nodded briskly.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said, and Harry noted the man's name. "I will take them from here. Come in, students."

She led the way into a smallish room and then left them with the crisp instructions to smarten themselves up. In the quiet, tensions rose. One girl began to whisper frantically, reciting spells she'd read about and wondering which one she'd need. Harry's mouth curled into an amused smile.

Beside him, Zabini seemed to be giving Harry a closer look, now that there was light in which to do so. Harry turned his head and returned the favour, still smiling. He had been right about Zabini's skin – it was very dark, although there was something else in the structure of his face that hinted at mixed ancestry. His slanting, cat-like eyes and peculiar last name made Harry think he had some Italian heritage in his bloodline.

That done, Harry turned his attention onto the rest of his year mates. Draco Malfoy was holding court in one corner, expounding on something at great length to his blocky cohorts. In another corner, the other boy who had shared a boat with them leaned against the wall, stringy hair hiding his face. The whispering girl was starting to gnaw on her nails near the door, a cloud of brown curls atop her head. One boy had brilliant red hair, bright where Harry's brother's was dark. It made him look like his head was on fire.

Harry studied the room and its occupants carefully until McGonagall finally returned.

"We're ready for you now," she said. "Line up, two across."

Harry found himself beside the bushy-haired girl, with Zabini just behind him as they moved out of the antechamber. There was a low-level murmuring from the vast hall as they entered, from the nearly three hundred black-robed students conversing in low tones. As the first years entered, the thrumming sound died away, replaced by expectant silence.

Harry glanced up at the staff table, his eyes automatically going straight to the old, white-haired wizard in the centre. That would be the Headmaster, he thought, and blinked when the old man seemed to feel his gaze and turned a pair of bright blue eyes directly on him. Harry held the gaze uncertainly until the old man looked away again, distracted by the grey-haired woman beside him. Then Harry's eyes wandered down the table and stopped on a tall, dark-haired man in black robes.

Harry recognized that unfortunate profile easily, despite the fact that he hadn't seen him in months and didn't even know his name. It was the man who had called him _Wednesday's child._

A pair of black, black eyes flicked over to meet his.

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me."_

Harry turned and stared. Nick had mentioned the Sorting Hat, he remembered, but he was rather sure that Nick had failed to mention that it _sang._

"_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat,_

_And I can cap them all."_

Harry turned and looked behind him at Zabini, who was watching the Hat sing with a bored expression on his face. When he saw Harry looking at him, he smirked. Harry turned back to the Hat as it continued to sing.

"_There's nothing hidden in your head,_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you,_

_Where you ought to be."_

It continued on from there, describing each of the four Houses and what personality went in each. The Hat finished its song to a rousing round of applause from students and teachers alike. It bowed to each of the five tables, then went silent and still.

McGonagall stood at the head of the line next to a stool and holding a long scroll. She informed them that she would read out their names, they would sit on the stool and place the Hat on their heads, and go sit with the House the Hat called out.

"Abbott, Hannah," she said briskly, and the girl with blonde pig-tails that had shared a boat with Harry and Zabini stumbled out of line, pink-faced and nervous. She sat on the stool and placed the Hat on her head. It deliberated for a moment, and then…

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat shouted, and the table on the far right burst into applause.

"Bones, Susan!" McGonagall called next, and then again…

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

And down the list they went. Mandy Brocklehurst joined the Ravenclaw table with Terry Boot, and then Lavender Brown became a Gryffindor. Millicent Bulstrode, a blocky girl with a wide, pallid face and stringy brown hair became the first Slytherin, while Justin Finch-Fletchley sat down at Hufflepuff.

The bushy-haired girl beside Harry turned out to be "Granger, Hermione," and became a Ravenclaw, and a boy named Neville Longbottom became a Gryffindor despite being so nervous that he actually fell over his own feet on his way to the stool, then ran off still wearing the Hat.

When his name was called Draco Malfoy swaggered up to the Hat with his steps full of arrogance and assumed superiority, and got placed into Slytherin before the Hat even touched his pristine silvery hair.

A girl named Alice Moon went after Malfoy and got placed into Hufflepuff, and then the weedy-looking boy, "Nott, Theodore," into Slytherin where he sat across from Malfoy and his two goons. then they hit the P's, starting with Pansy Parkinson going into Slytherin, then a pair of twin Indian-looking girls got separated, "Patil, Padma" going into Ravenclaw and her sister, "Patil, Parvati" into Gryffindor. Next, a Hufflepuff girl, "Perks, Sally-Anne," and then…

"Potter, Harry."

The Hall abruptly went quiet, then a low thrumming murmur rippled through the ranks. As Harry moved out of line and made his way towards the Hat, the whisperss of the students closest to him become understandable.

"_Potter, did she say?"_

"_I didn't know there were any other Potters."_

"_A relative, you think?"_

"_Must be. Cousin, probably."_

"_Not a brother, surely?"_

"_He definitely looks enough like him to be a brother, if you ask me."_

Harry lifted his gaze to the far left, where Gryffindor table was. At the end, surrounded on all sides, Harry caught sight of Nick's distinctive dark-red hair before he sat on the stool, then the Hat fell down over his eyes, and a small voice spoke in his ear.

"_The littlest Potter, I see. I've been waiting for you."_

"Ah," Harry said intelligently.

"_Yes, I have. He's too clever by half, your Headmaster. Remember that."_

"All right," Harry murmured uncertainly.

"_Where shall I put you, then? Clever, oh you're very clever indeed, and eager to prove it. Not one for Ravenclaw though, your talents lie less with theory and more with common sense. You have strong, strong loyalty to one person in particular. This kind is not a Hufflepuff's loyalty, either. You're cunning, and you're brave, goodness yes, very brave indeed. I think that will aid you very well in your time here at Hogwarts, you'll need to be brave, especially in…"_

"SLYTHERIN!"

There was a long, pregnant pause as Harry pulled the Hat off his head, and then he nearly fell over as the entire Slytherin table exploded into cheers, their previous polite and dignified clapping gone out the window. Harry froze in startled surprise in the act of replacing the Hat on the stool and simply stared at the Slytherins.

Up at the staff table, the Headmaster looked down at him with an interested gaze. The black-haired Professor at the end was pale faced from shock.

"Well," the Headmaster said quietly as he watched young Harry Potter shuffle towards his new House table. "This might prove to be very, very interesting."

Harry caught one glimpse of Nick's disappointed face before he was engulfed in his standing House mates, feeling hands grab his arms, his shoulders, and clutch at his sleeves. Bewildered, he let himself be guided by many hands to a seat, which ended up being next to one of Malfoy's goons. It wasn't until Professor McGonagall created several loud _bangs_ with her wand that everyone settled down. Even so they still snuck sideways glances at Harry as the rest of the Sorting recommenced with "Smith, Zacharias," and "Summers, Jackson," who both became Hufflepuffs. "Thomas, Dean" became a Gryffindor, so did "Weasley, Ron," the redheaded boy, and at last, "Zabini, Blaise," joined Harry at the Slytherin table and the Sorting was finished.

The Headmaster then stood, smiling cheerfully at the students, and spoke the most bizarre and meaningless words Harry had ever heard, then clapped his hands and sat down. At once, the tables were buried under the most food Harry had ever seen in one place in his entire life. A low-level murmur filled the hall as students began to serve themselves.

"Got yourself into Slytherin, Potter?" Malfoy said maliciously from his spot on the other side of his goon. "How on earth did you manage that?"

"By virtue of being extraordinarily brave, according to the Hat," Harry said, still bewildered. "I thought that Gryffindor was the brave House? That Hat's cracked."

One of the older students cackled, while several others muttered to each other in confusion.

"_You're_ cracked, Potter," Malfoy said, looking uncertain. "What claptrap is this?"

"Too lazy and selfish for Hufflepuff, too dumb for Ravenclaw, too brave for Gryffindor, an automatic _Slytherin?_" Harry asked. Several students laughed at that conclusion.

"Marcus Flint," the older student who'd laughed before said, stretching down the table to offer Harry his hand. "Quidditch Captain."

"Nice to meet you," Harry said, knowing that his ears were red. A chorus of introductions came his way from those closest to him, including the two fifth year prefects Arlene Hallswayde and Gaius Capper.

"Who's that professor there?" Harry asked when the introductions slowed, and found practically the entire table turning in the direction he indicated. "The one with the black hair," Harry provided, bemused.

"That's our Head of House," Flint said, turning back to his food. "Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master."

"I've met him before," Harry said blithely.

"When did you meet Professor Snape?" Zabini asked from across the table.

"He brought me two messages last year – although, come to think of it, he never told me who they were from," Harry said.

"So why would you need to ask?" a sixth year prefect asked.

"He never told me his name, either," Harry replied.

"Sounds like him," Flint said, grinning broadly.

"He calls me Wednesday's child," Harry said, suddenly wondering if he could get an answer to the puzzle that had been plaguing him for months.

"Like the rhyme?" the prefect asked.

"Yeah," Harry said. "He called it _Monday's Child_ but told me to look it up myself, but I never got the chance."

One of the girls in Harry's year, Daphne Greengrass, recited,

"_Monday's Child is fair of face,_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

_Wednesday's child is one of woe,_

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

_Friday's child is loving and giving,_

_Saturday's child labours hard for a living,_

_But the child that's born on the Sun's day,_

_Is cheerful and bright and strong and gay."* __1_

"No wonder I couldn't find it," Harry mumbled. "I was looking in the wrong places."

"It's been around in various forms and languages since Mithraicism was the primary religion," Daphne explained. "There's even supposed to be a Muggle version, though they use their Sabbath day tradition."

"Oh," Harry said, taken aback by the confirmation. "It's not a wizarding poem, then?"

"Of course it is," Malfoy sneered. "They stole it from wizards hundreds of years ago, and got it wrong, to boot!"

Harry didn't really know what to say to that, so he moved on.

"At any rate," Harry said, injecting a bit of pensiveness into his tone. "He said I wasn't born on a Wednesday at all, so I'm not quite sure what he was on about."

"Obviously telling you to stop moping," Zabini said knowledgeably. _"Wednesday's child is one of woe."_

"How perfectly bizarre," Harry said, shaking his head.

"That's the Professor," Flint interjected. "Subtle to the core."

"Just don't get him angry," said one of the fourth year girls nearby. "That's a really, really bad idea."

Fervent nods echoed this.

"Eat, Potter," Flint said, noticing Harry's empty plate. "You'll starve if you don't, and nobody's going to tell you the route to the kitchens on your first night here, that's for sure."

Harry shot the sixth year a dirty look, which only got him a smirk in reply, but then he relented in the face of common sense and served himself some chicken and a jacket potato.

While he ate, the conversation was taken up by a group of third years down the table, turning it into a lively discussion of Mithraicism and the development of Christianity. Harry eventually decided that wizards danced around both religions without being one or the other, or anything else.

Closer around him, the first years started discussing the Headmaster's blazingly bright blue robes, decorated with gleaming moons and stars.

"Muggles always depict Merlin as a wizard with a big white beard and stars and moons on his robes," Harry said, including himself into the conversation. "Do you think it's deliberate, the Headmaster, I mean?"

"You mean, like some obscure joke?" Daphne asked curiously. "Most of us wouldn't know that. I didn't know that."

"Must be for the Mudbloods," Malfoy grimaced, rolling his eyes. "What a crackpot old fool."

"You don't like the Headmaster?" Harry asked in surprise.

"The Malfoys aren't on good terms with Dumbledore," Pansy Parkinson piped up. It was the first time Harry had heard her speak, and he concealed a wince at the sound. Pansy Parkinson had an unfortunate sounding voice, grating and naturally inclined to be whiney. Harry hoped that for her sake, she outgrew it.

"Anyways, Merlin was a scrub wizard," Daphne continued. "He was around before wands, and before men really lived long enough to grow a white beard. There are a lot of paintings of Merlin in history books – brown robes, brown hair, brown eyes, the lot. Very unassuming looking."

"So it _is_ a joke, then," Harry said, turning to look up at Dumbledore. The Headmaster had a towering, pointy hat on, made of blue velvet and with a giant crescent-moon shaped ornament hanging from the tip, with two golden tassels dangling from each point. He couldn't help it, he started to laugh quietly.

"_I_ think it's positively repulsive," Malfoy said airily.

"It's funny," Harry disagreed. "Especially since Merlin didn't actually look like that."

Malfoy snorted and looked away, as if Harry wasn't even worthy of an answer after that statement.

"Hey, Potter," a fourth year boy called from down the table. "Are you a cousin?"

"Brother," Harry said, not seeing any reason to lie or pretend to not understand. There was a slight ripple down the table, a whispery noise as approximately seventy student robes brushed against one another. A feeling of subdued excitement permeated the air.

Harry looked around in bewilderment. Many pairs of eyes met his own, and he caught glimpses of lightning-quick smiles and knowing looks. He blinked uncertainly, feeling lost and out of place.

Suddenly, the goon beside him – who was apparently named Goyle – stiffened, half-turned around in his seat, then scooted sideways until he'd squished Malfoy between him and the other goon, Crabbe. Malfoy's protests were muffled and indistinct.

Across from Harry, Zabini looked grey and wide-eyed. The whole table had fallen silent.

There was a breath of icy air on Harry's neck. Stiff and uncertain, he slowly turned around to look.

Only fierce control of his own body let him avoid the indignity of shoving himself backwards and over the table, for floating directly behind him was a gaunt-faced ghost with deadened silver eyes staring directly into Harry's own. There were silvery splotches all down the ghost's front, and Harry realized with a distant chill that they were bloodstains.

For a long moment, boy and ghost stared at each other, still and silent; then the ghost bent at the waist and peered closer into Harry's eyes, smiled an eerie little smile, and finally straightened and floated away.

Harry let out a breath of air, echoed by all the students closest to him.

"What was _that?"_ Zabini asked breathlessly. "I thought the Baron didn't acknowledge anyone who wasn't dead!"

"The _Baron?_" Harry asked weakly.

"The Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost," Flint provided, watching the ghost glide away. "And Zabini's right – I've never known him to acknowledge anyone but another ghost, or, in an emergency, the Headmaster or Slytherin's Head of House. I've never seen him do anything like that before, although he's the only one who can control Peeves so he must do _something_ when he has to."

"I wouldn't mind him not doing it again," Harry said uneasily. Beside him, Goyle finally found the remnants of whatever courage he had and got off poor Malfoy – who was looking thoroughly mussed and very irritated – in favour of serving himself a fourth portion of steak.

"Whatever you do, Potter, keep hoping that," Flint said ominously, and as if agreeing, the remaining food disappeared from the plates (and off the fork in Goyle's case, much to his dismay), replaced by desserts of every kind.

"Who is Peeves?" Harry asked suddenly, as he finally noticed Flint's mention of the name.

"Hogwarts' resident poltergeist," Flint provided. "Crazy sod, stay away from him. You'll know when you meet him – he'll probably dump something viscous and slimy on your head that is impossible to get off."

"Oh," Harry said wryly, and absently helped himself to the rice pudding.

The conversation then turned to innocuous things – Quidditch scores and test marks and upcoming classes, until they were too full to eat another bite and the dessert vanished from the tables. The Headmaster stood once more to speak.

He informed them that the Forest that bordered the grounds was forbidden to students, as well as the rightmost corridor on the third floor. He then led them through a short but perfectly bizarre rendition of what was apparently the school song. Harry mouthed along half-heartedly, but mostly listened to the inventive melodies several other students chose – particularly a pair of redheaded twins that had to have been related to Ronald Weasley, who both chose a funeral march, of all things.

At last, at a cue Harry clearly missed, the students all rose to their feet. A prefect started calling the first years to order at the Slytherin table, telling them to stay together if they didn't want to disappear and never be found again. Only, there was a voice calling over the crowd, shouting Harry's name.

"Nick!" he called back, searching for his brother. "Nick?"

"Here, Harry!" Nick said, and there he was, shoving his way through the milling crowd. Harry rushed towards him, relieved.

"I wanted to be in Gryffindor with you but the Hat was weird and said I was _really brave_ and that was good because I would need to be brave in Slytherin, and I think that stupid hat's cracked!"

Nick looked at him, startled, then laughed.

"It's okay," he said. "We'll still spend as much time together as we can, right? Whenever we can."

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Yes, definitely."

"Good," Nick said, and for a moment he just looked at Harry, seemingly memorizing his face. Harry found himself doing the same, until the Slytherin prefect called to him impatiently and Harry stole a quick hug from his brother.

"I need to go," he said apologetically. "Don't want to disappear without a trace, and all that."

"Bye!" Nick said, waving as Harry hurried away. "See you tomorrow at breakfast!"

Harry waved back and vanished into the crowd.


	8. The Potions Master

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

* * *

**Chapter Eight:** The Potions Master

* * *

In contrast to the happiest day in Harry's life so far, his first night at Hogwarts was plagued with restless sleep and foggy, unfocused nightmares. He floated like a ghost and raced up and down corridors he'd never seen before. There was cackling laughter, portraits that chatted and wandered from frame to frame, suits of armour that clanged and walked as though the ghosts of their owners resided in them still.

He woke in the darkest hours of the night sweaty and panting, as if he'd been running for far too long. He lay in the dark, gulping desperately and trying hard to catch his breath.

Sleep was gone for him, and he waited in the dark and quiet for daylight to come.

When the prefects led him to the Great Hall in the morning he made a beeline straight for his brother, already sitting at Gryffindor table with his friends.

"Morning, he said idly, plopping down across from his brother as if he did it every day.

"Hi Harry," Nick said, smiling. "Got your schedule?"

"No?" Harry asked, furrowing his brow.

"Your Head of House gives it at breakfast," Katie said, elbowing Nick in the ribs.

"Oh yeah," Nick said sheepishly. "That would be why _we_ don't have schedules, either."

Katie rolled her eyes.

"You'll want to be at your table when the food arrives, Harry," she explained. "At least this first morning. You don't want to miss it – especially with Professor Snape." She shuddered theatrically.

"Is he that bad?" Harry asked uneasily.

"Not to Slytherins," Jon said from Nick's other side. "He favors you guys like nothing else, but he hates Gryffindors."

"He hates _me,"_ Nick said in dismay. "And I've no idea why!"

"Yes, you told me," Harry nodded. "I didn't know that your Professor Snape was the man who gave me my messages last year."

"Those messages that told you I'd got my letter?" Nick asked curiously. "Did you ever find out who sent him with them?"

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "I'll ask though, now that I'm here."

"The Professors are coming down Harry, you'd better go," Katie said urgently, and Harry looked up as he rose to his feet. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was bearing down on them with a stack of parchments in her arms, and across the hall Professor Snape was prowling towards the Slytherins.

"Bye, Nick!" he yelped and hurried away without waiting for a reply.

The only empty seat by the other first years was between Goyle and Nott, so he refrained from chatting while the Professor passed out schedules. When he got to their section of the table, his black eyes met Harry's over Tracy Davis's head, dark and empty like tunnels. He stared at Harry for a long moment as though he wasn't sure what to make of him. Harry felt much the same, remembering his own rather desperate attempt to rationalize Snape's presence by thinking of him as a long lost uncle or cousin.

As though he'd seen the thought, Snape jerked a little as though startled, and then an expression of dismay crossed his hawk-like features for a split second before disappearing again. Harry blinked, bemused, then had the rather awful thought that perhaps magic could make it so people could read minds. He fought the childish urge to cover his ears and close his eyes as if that would guard against it.

Instead, he silently accepted the schedule the Professor handed him with what he hoped was dignified aplomb. This time, the Professor's lips twitched in amusement.

"Charms at nine after breakfast," Pansy read when he'd moved away. "Astronomy on Wednesday, at midnight. Does that mean Wednesday morning or Wednesday night?"

"The class starts at midnight, so Wednesday morning," Zabini mused, examining his own schedule. "Then Herbology after Charms today, and on Wednesday after lunch and Friday at ten-thirty. Oh, we have Friday afternoons off, brilliant."

"When's Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Nott wondered, picking up his own schedule.

"Tuesday, last class," Zabini provided, "and Wednesday after lunch and Thursday at ten-thirty."

"We have Potions on Wednesday!" Malfoy said delightedly. "Last class."

"That's going to be grand," Pansy said, smiling. "Professor Snape favors us."

"That's what I heard," Harry said warily, remembering the Professor's strange stare.

"We should go," Nott murmured. "Does anyone know where the Charms classroom is?"

There was a chorus of head-shaking.

"Bloody," Zabini muttered. "They should hand out maps."

"Fifth floor," a nearby Prefect supplied helpfully. "Up the main staircase and turn left, then left again first corridor you come to. That's the Charms corridor, and you lot had better scamper – it's a ten minute walk, easy."

The first years jumped to their feet, grabbing their book bags and in the cases of Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini, shoving last bits of breakfast into their mouths. That done, the ten of them filed out of the side door of the hall – the 'Slytherin exit', according to Malfoy, and headed around the Great Hall towards the entrance hall, where the great marble staircase was.

They found the Charms classroom without incident, and were greeted by the tiny, white-haired Professor that Harry had seen up at the staff table. He introduced himself as Professor Flitwick and started class with a roll call, whereupon he paused at Harry's name and peered at him unsurely. Harry regarded him silently in return, uncertain but with his chin held high.

First class was a lecture on the basics of Charms, including the necessary safety precautions. The class was a single session and ended after only forty-five minutes, whereupon they were told to go to their common room to study the material before leaving the castle for the greenhouses and Herbology.

In Herbology, Professor Sprout regarded them all with a bright, cheerful smile as she gave them a tour of the greenhouses for their first lesson, lecturing on the more harmless plants and their properties and uses. She assured them that she didn't expect them to remember everything just yet, but would they please study on their own time so they may learn them as soon as possible?

Then it was lunchtime, and the Slytherin first years tramped back to the castle wearily and fell to their lunch ravenously. Midway through, Professor Snape rose from the Head table and descended on the Slytherins, pacing the table and asking questions about their classes. He grilled the two new fifth-year Prefects and bent his head to speak with the male seventh-year prefect, nodding and murmuring quietly.

When he reached the first years, he scanned them all with a cold and indifferent gaze.

"The youngest of the Snake House," he murmured when he stopped beside them. "Mr. Malfoy. You day goes well, I trust?"

"Yes sir," Malfoy said respectfully. "Charms and Herbology so far, as you know, and we're to have History of Magic and Transfiguration after lunch."

"How are your classes?" Snape asked them at large, to a chorus of _'fines'_ and _'greats'_ and one lone _'easy'_. "Very good. I have the prefects and other Professors keeping an eye on you. Rest assured that any transgressions _will_ get back to me, in addition to any struggling in class."

"Yes, sir," they dutifully said, and Snape nodded crisply and returned to the Head table.

He'd ignored Harry entirely.

After lunch they set out for the History of Magic classroom. Within moments, they'd taken a wrong turn, and then another wrong turn trying to get back to where they'd taken the first wrong turn, and before long all ten first years were completely and utterly lost.

The ghosts were no help. Harry thought they must have come across three of them in their desperate attempts to find something familiar - unfortunately the Bloody Baron (for all of his strange actions at the Welcoming Feast) spoke to no one living – at least not students. The Grey Lady didn't even notice them. They also met the Fat Friar, who gave them very earnest and complicated directions that got them more lost than ever. The portraits, when you could get them to talk sense, were no more help than the Friar.

The stairs made everything twice as bad as they would have been. Every time they tried to go up or down one they seemed to shift, so that no matter what the Slytherin first years did, they were essentially wandering aimlessly.

And then, as if that were not enough, there were the _doors_, which were just as deceitful and complicated as everything else. Some of them weren't doors at all, just replicas, while some were about two feet tall and others made of solid stone impossible to open unless you were under the effects of a particularly powerful Strengthening Solution (according to Daphne). Some wouldn't open unless you had a password, or complimented them, or tickled them in exactly the wrong spot. With growing despair, Harry and the others figured that the dire warnings by the Slytherin prefects about being lost forever were more than just hot air.

Their fears turned out to be unfounded, however, when Harry spotted the name plaque on the base of the statue of Borigand the Befuddled that the Fat Friar had mentioned as being right across the corridor from the History of Magic classroom.

"There – look!" he said, feeling a great rush of relief. They sprinted down the corridor and peeked through the door.

It was Professor Binns, the only ghost Professor at Hogwarts. Since the first day was a series of single sessions, the classroom was empty – but that didn't stop Binns from lecturing to it.

"Shh, shh," Harry said desperately, looking back at his year mates' uneasy faces. On tiptoe, they eased into the classroom and settled as quietly as possible at their individual desks, setting bags down and hushing each other whenever someone made too much noise. All the while, Binns droned on and on without once looking up from his ghostly notes.

That was the most interesting thing that happened in History of Magic. Despite the adrenaline rush – or perhaps because of it – within moments they were all fighting to stay awake.

They didn't have long to doze however – they'd been there barely fifteen minutes before the bell was ringing and they were away, rushing to find their next class.

This time, they bumped into a Slytherin fourth-year who directed them to the Transfiguration classroom. Anxious to not be late for this class of all classes, they arrived thirty minutes early and ended up sitting in the corridor for the older class – Slytherin and Gryffindor sixth years – to finish and leave.

Like all the other classes they'd been in so far, Transfiguration was again different. Harry's perception of Professor McGonagall had been quite correct – she was not one to cross. She sat them all down in their first class with her and lectured firmly on the subject of rules, regulations, and proper conduct before moving on to the class lecture. Even Malfoy, so often a smug and irritating wanker, turned into a respectful and charming boy in her presence.

Afterwards it was dinnertime, where Harry nearly fell asleep in his mashed potatoes, and then back to the common room. They were all so exhausted that their steps dragged along the corridor in the dungeons, their book bags weighing them down heavily. Harry wanted nothing so much as a long, hot shower and bed, but the day was not over yet.

The teachers hadn't assigned a lot of homework yet, but Professor McGonagall had assigned them two chapters' reading, and they had her class again the very next morning. Tired but determined, Harry set to it with a will, but was interrupted before he'd gotten through five-hundred words by the fire flaring brilliant green and spitting out his Head of House.

Too tired to stem his reaction, Harry gaped at the sight of someone walking out of _the fireplace_, which was actually _lit_, and had to rub his eyes vigorously to make them focus enough to realize that yes, he _had_ just seen someone _walk out_ of the _fire._

"First years," Snape said imperiously, calling from the area just in front of the fireplace. He gestured at the students sitting nearby; they groaned as they gathered their books and papers and vacated the chairs. "Sit," he told Harry and the others, gesturing at the chairs.

"I have spoken to your professors today," he began, "and I am pleased that I received no complaints, as of yet – except for you, Mr. Malfoy. Professor Sprout reports an astonishing lack of magical plant awareness – you will rectify that immediately. I will find you a tutor, and it will probably be a Hufflepuff, and you will treat them with respect, understand? At least while they are tutoring you."

"Yes, sir," Malfoy muttered sullenly.

"Excellent, and that brings me to another point of interest. It has come to my attention that my first year class has an interesting mix of old school pureblood views and a nearly unheard half-blood."

Harry stilled. He knew from Nick's letters about the differences in bloodlines – half-blood, pureblood, and the so-called Mudblood. Snape was going to tell them, tell these little vipers what he was. Well, so what. Harry lifted his chin defiantly and glared at Snape, daring him with his eyes.

"I will not have any of you – " and here his eyes settled on Malfoy, then on Pansy, Zabini, and Nott, "not _any_ of you speak ill of bloodlines while inside this House. Slytherins stand by each other, always. I _will not_ have _anyone_ in this House exiled or looked down upon because of bloodlines. If I hear even a whisper of an insult along those lines, the results _Will. Not. Be. Pleasant."_ The entire class of first years gulped, looking alarmed. "There will be more discussed, but I see you have readings to do and your evening ablutions to attend to. I shall speak to you tomorrow evening."

"Yes sir," they murmured obediently, and shuffled off. Feeling an odd mixture of relief and bewilderment, Harry stared at his Professor for a long, drawn out moment before he followed his classmates. The sound of the fire roaring heralded the Professor's fiery exit.

* * *

After their first day, the first year Slytherins were paired up with another House for some of their lessons, which went from single, forty-five minute sessions, to double classes at an hour-and-a-half each. For Potions, they were paired with the first year Gryffindors, while for Herbology they were paired with the Hufflepuffs, and for Defense Against the Dark Arts(a total bust, thanks to Professor Quirrell) they were paired with the Ravenclaws.

Within two days, the first years had begun to form their own hierarchies. Three of the Houses seemed to enact a trial-based system with a semi-leader type, but Slytherin split in two. At first it was just Harry avoiding Malfoy, who seemed to go out of his way to insult and aggravate him (being careful not to call attention to Harry's bloodlines, however), but soon Theodore Nott started keeping him company – if you could call sitting in the same general vicinity as such. Nott was a loner type, and rather too clever to follow someone of lesser intelligence than he, as Malfoy was, and unwilling to follow someone regardless. Harry didn't care – he didn't mind the company, and Nott was a quiet sort.

Their tiny group grew when Daphne Greengrass started joining them in the library and across the common room when they were studying, leaving the remainder of their year surrounding Malfoy on the other side. After Daphne included herself, Zabini gave up on Malfoy's attitudes and started sitting with them again, followed by timid Tracy Davis, and suddenly the Slytherin first year class was split in half.

Harry was so busy he hardly had time to do anything but smile and wave at his brother, and greet him before breakfast and say goodbye right after dinner.

Then, before he was quite aware or prepared for it, Wednesday arrived and with it, their first Potions class – with the Gryffindors.

As it turned out, Snape most certainly did favor the Slytherins, to Harry's mixed delight and horror.

Potions class was taught in the dungeons, although not as deep as the Slytherin common room. The classroom itself was one of the larger dungeon rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves brimming with potions ingredients. There were twenty small tables inside, each equipped to hold a small cauldron off the tabletop so a magical flame could burn beneath it. Their cauldrons were already there.

Harry glanced at Zabini and Nott uncertainly, catching sight as he did so of the boy who'd run off with the Sorting Hat; short, round-faced, with an unpleasantly green tinge as he scanned the shelves. Harry glanced in the direction the boy was looking, feeling a twist of amusement at what was making him so queasy – it was a pickled toad, floating in bizarrely purple liquid. It seemed to squirm every once in a while.

The first years sat down, separating naturally into halves with the Gryffindors nearest the door, and the Slytherins on the other side. As such, when Professor Snape slammed open the door with an enormously loud _bang_, it was the Gryffindors who got the full impact of the noise. They jumped, startled, and Draco Malfoy's lot sniggered. The Gryffindors glared in their direction.

Snape was one of the few teachers that did not take roll call before class. As soon as he was through the door, he was speaking in a low tone, threats and insults pouring from his lips. Harry felt himself grow tenser.

"Weasley!" Snape snapped, eyes narrowing on one of the boys on the other side. It was the redhead, tall and lanky and bewildered looking. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Weasley looked befuddled. Harry blinked, uncertain, and something tickled vaguely in his mind. Something about sleeping so deeply you looked dead…?

"I don't know, sir," Weasley replied.

"A point from Gryffindor then," Snape said waspishly. "Thomas! Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

This time a tall black boy froze in surprise, caught off guard.

"Er…"

"Well?" Snape asked, irritated. "No answer?"

"No, Professor," Thomas said, subdued.

"Another point. Third for three then, shall we? Longbottom, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry inwardly winced as Snape called on the pasty-faced Longbottom boy, but he surprised him.

"N-n-nothing, sir," he squeaked, and Harry knew at once that he was correct because Snape whirled around with a sweep of black robe and snarled at them all to pair up.

"For your information, Weasley and Thomas, powdered root of asphodel and infusion of wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it simulates death. It is called, in fact, Draught of the Living Death. A bezoar is a stone found in the stomach of a goat, and it is a cure for most poisons. Longbottom, take note that monkshood and wolfsbane is also called aconite. Write that down!"

It suddenly became rather chaotic as the Gryffindors tried to partner up while simultaneously trying to take notes, until Snape let out a crack with his wand to make them settle down into their seats. For the remainder of the hour he had them work on a simple potion to cure boils, alternately hissing at the Gryffindors and subtly praising the Slytherins.

Harry partnered Zabini and together they managed a fair potion, incurring a nod from Snape. Then the Professor was telling the class to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs, and was suddenly interrupted by a loud hissing noise as a cauldron on the other side of the room buckled and warped as it melted into a puddle of slag. The potion, a violent fuchsia, seeped slowly across the floor, burning holes in the shoes of those unable to get out of the way in time. The Longbottom boy whimpered, the exposed areas of his skin rapidly developing painful-looking boils.

Snape cleared the mess with a swift wave of his wand, then spun around.

"Idiot boy," he snarled at Longbottom. "You added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, didn't you? Despite the fact that I clearly stated each step at the beginning of class, including that of taking the cauldron off the fire before adding the porcupine quills! You, Thomas! Why did you allow your partner to add the quills? Too good to listen also, I see, and that's another point from Gryffindor."

Thomas opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again, pressing his lips together. Looking disappointed, Snape gestured brusquely at Finnigan and ordered him to take the whimpering Longbottom boy to the Infirmary.

* * *


	9. The Three Headed Dog

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Nine:** The Three Headed Dog

* * *

Potions was the last class of the week, to Harry's intense relief. Stumbling out of the chilly dungeon classroom with the rest of his classmates, he felt the remaining adrenaline wear off and exhaustion settle in. They were all silent as they trekked wearily up the stairs and into the airy floors aboveground.

In the Great Hall, the first years separated. The Gryffindors peeled away and made a beeline for their table, while Slytherin headed towards the far end of the Hall. Harry followed the Gryffindors.

"Hi," he mumbled, falling into a seat across from Nick and Jon.

"Hey Harry, how was class?" Nick asked, assembling a beef sandwich on his plate.

"Potions," Harry replied. "It was…very strange."

Nick paused in his motions at that, looking up at Harry with intense interest in his dark eyes.

"How did it go?" he wondered, blinking. "Did Snape favor you a lot?"

"Snape completely ignored me," Harry said, shaking his head. "I don't think he even looked at me once the entire class."

"That's strange," Nick said, fiddling with his sandwich while he stared at his brother. "He must really want Slytherin to win the House Cup at the end of the year then, since I can't imagine him liking someone related to me. He _hates_ me."

"He doesn't like Gryffindors at _all_," Harry confided. "He was awful to the Gryffindors in class."

"That's nothing, I'm sure," Nick said, shrugging it off. "I would give my right arm to have Snape only treat me awful."

"Snape's a tyrant to Nick," Jon whispered conspiratorially. "He's pretty bad on the rest of us, but it's nothing on how he is to Nick."

"You're lucky," Nick told Harry glumly. "Do _try_ not to get on Snape's bad side Harry, will you? 'Cause then I'd have to say something."

"Don't worry about me," Harry said, equal parts amused, appreciative, and irritated. "I can certainly take care of myself."

"Yeah, me too," Nick said grumpily.

"Yes," Harry sighed, and reached out to spoon some cold cuts onto his plate to make his own sandwich.

"Have flying lessons been scheduled yet, Harry?" Katie Bell asked, seated down the row on Harry's side.

"Flying lessons?" Harry asked. "No, not yet. Why?"

"If your brother is any indication, you'll be a natural," Katie said, grinning. "Not that being a natural means he's going to snag the Chaser position from me this year."

"Dream on, Katie," Nick laughed. "You'll be stuck as next year's Seeker and you know it."

Katie stuck out her tongue playfully.

"Anyways, do you think you'd want to play when you're older, Harry?" she continued, curious.

"I'd never really thought about it," Harry said, a bit nonplussed. "I guess I'd have to see how I like flying, yes?"

"Well, I'm sure you'll love it," Katie assured him. "It's the best sport in the world."

"Here, here," Nick and Jon said in unison.

"You have the afternoon off, don't you Harry?" Katie asked, and Harry nodded.

"Better enjoy it while you have it," Nick said glumly. "Second years don't have Friday afternoons off."

"Why not?" Harry asked, aghast. Just the thought of two more classes after lunch was enough to make his limbs feel like lead.

"We're supposed to be accustomed to the class schedule by second year," Jon said, just as glum as Nick. _"Supposed to_, being the operative words. We have classes after lunch. _Ugh!"_

Harry took a bite of his sandwich to keep the look of dismay off his face.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned misty and cool, and Harry took the opportunity to slam a pillow down onto Draco Malfoy's pale, sleeping face.

The soft morning silence was shattered by his scream, then again by his outraged yell.

"_Potter!"_ he shouted furiously. "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Payback for having to put up with your spoiled self for an entire week!" Harry shot back, dancing out of reach as Malfoy made a grab for him.

"What the hell?" Zabini spat, emerging from his drapes with his eyes half asleep and his cheek creased.

"Potter hit me with a pillow!" Malfoy snarled angrily. "Right in the face when I was asleep!"

"Good for Potter," Nott grumbled from his bed. He hadn't even bothered to open his curtains to see what the problem was, and identical snoring from the remaining two beds in the dorm announced that Crabbe and Goyle hadn't even woken up for it.

At Nott's words, Malfoy gave a short scream of rage and grabbed his wand. Harry yelped and ducked as the other boy sprayed fierce looking green sparks at him, but the sparks stung only slightly and left no mark on skin or robe. Harry looked at his arm, then back at Malfoy, grinning.

"Well Malfoy, I must say I expected something a bit more…um…"

"Noteworthy?" Zabini provided dryly.

"And useful," Harry said, nodding his head. Malfoy flushed a pale pink, the equivalent of blood-red on anyone else, and threw his pillow at Harry, who laughed and ducked aside. Before he could retaliate and start a serious pillow fight, there was a knock on the door.

"What are you guys _doing?"_ Pansy grumbled, peeking through the door. Zabini swiftly retreated into his bed to preserve his modesty. "You've woken the whole dungeon by now!"

"Sorry, Pansy," Harry said apologetically. "It was Malfoy though – he's the one who was screaming."

"I didn't _scream_, Potter," Malfoy spat, his voice cracking furiously on the word. "And it was _you_ who hit me with a pillow!

"At any rate," Pansy said, looking slightly less annoyed, "I've been in the common room – trying to get away from the noise you guys were making, I might add – and I saw the notice board. The flying lessons schedule is posted, Draco."

"Finally," Malfoy said, kicking his way free of his blankets. "I've been waiting and waiting – when are they scheduled for?"

Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Someone's shouting distracted me from looking," she said waspishly. "I barely got a glance anyways – the board's surrounded by people. Quidditch trial dates were posted too."

Malfoy suddenly moved faster, snatching his bag of toiletries as he rushed to his trunk to pull out a hanger with an immaculate robe on it, then hurried to the showers. Nott finally yanked open his drapes and glared out at them all, mussed and foul-tempered.

Harry found himself curious as to what all the fuss was, and hurried to the showers. If Malfoy spent time on his hair and skin like he usually did, Harry would be finished showering and over in the common room while the other boy was still spreading gel into his hair.

And that was exactly what happened. Despite Malfoy's rush, Harry was finished long before him and strolled unhurriedly into the common room, where a milling group of students huddled around the notice board.

Harry's lack of physical stature held him in good stead in situations like these. Tucking his shoulders and head, he burrowed through the crowd towards the board, where two long pieces of parchment presided. One was labeled with _Quidditch Trials_, and the other, _First-Year Flying Lessons_. The latter's first meet was scheduled for Thursday at three-thirty in the afternoon, taking the place of Thursday Potions. Harry rather thought that would irritate Snape.

Breakfast discussions were composed entirely of Quidditch talk. Malfoy regaled them all with tale after tale of his flying exploits, all of which seemed to end with him narrowly escaping a lethal collision with a Muggle helicopter. He complained endlessly about the rules preventing first years from having their own broom, and later bragged about how he was a sure bet for Seeker next year, when Higgs graduated.

Malfoy wasn't the only one. Zabini was quite pleased to tell them about his own flying experiences, which had been performed behind his mother's back. At least there were some variations to his stories, to Harry's relief. Unlike Malfoy's.

At the Gryffindor table, the carrot-topped boy was prattling about the time he'd nearly hit a hang-glider. Harry looked around in bewildered exasperation. Was Quidditch really that good?

He had to wait until Thursday to find out, when the first year Slytherin and Gryffindors broke away from their afternoon classes after the bell and filtered in twos and threes through the corridors and down the stairs, and out into the bright sunshine.

There were twenty brooms on the ground, even though there were two open spots in Gryffindor House. Eighteen students gathered around, gleefully anticipating.

Madam Hooch's voice preceded her, calling across the green lawn. They all turned to watch her stride briskly across the grass to them; a tall, hard-looking woman with short, iron-grey hair and eyes like nothing Harry had ever seen before. They were almost yellow.

"Well?" she asked briskly, when she was close enough that they could hear without her having to shout. "What are you waiting for? All of you, stand by a broomstick."

Harry moved with the others, trying to find a broom with the least amount of bent bristles and frightening looking splinters. After a moment, they all stopped milling, and the two saddest looking brooms laid on the ground with no one beside them.

Harry stood between Malfoy and Nott, with Zabini on Nott's other side. Across the way, one of the Patil twins stood opposite him.

"Now," Hooch began, "put your right hand over your broom, and say 'Up!'"

"Up!" the class chorused, and Harry's broom smacked firmly into his hand with a light _whoosh._

His was one of the only ones. Even Malfoy had to say it twice, and some just rolled over or didn't even move at all.

When everyone eventually had a broom in their hands, Madam Hooch came around to check their grips, and Harry had to suppress a wicked smile when she told Malfoy, the braggart, that he'd been doing it wrong for years.

That done, she instructed them on how to mount, pacing up and down the rows while Harry got more and more irritated at the slow pace. The broom seemed to buzz beneath him, as eager to get into the air as Harry himself was.

"There now," she said, finally coming to a stop at the head of the row. "Now, on my whistle, you will kick off hard from the ground, hover for a moment by keeping the broom steady, then sink back down to the ground by pushing down slightly. Everyone understand?"

"Yes, Madam," the class chorused. Harry fought to keep his lip from curling.

"Three, two, one," Madam Hooch said, then blew her whistle. The plump-faced boy that Harry would always remember as the one who'd run off with the Sorting Hat shot straight into the air, considerably higher than the few feet Hooch had specified, and kept climbing.

"Come back, boy!" Hooch shouted, but The-Boy-Who-Ran-Off-With-The-Sorting-Hat was out of control. His broom shot higher and higher, and Harry saw the other boy's white face peer dizzily down, grow disoriented, and slip sideways.

The entire class cringed at the sickening crack that sounded when Longbottom hit the ground, a heap of limbs and tangled black robes. He moaned as Hooch ran to him, the tone of his voice high pitched and cracking with pain.

"It's a broken wrist," Hooch muttered, helping him to his feet. Her yellow eyes darted over to them, fierce. "You're to keep your feet on the ground, all of you," she said firmly, "while I take this boy to the Hospital Wing. If any of you so much as touch a bristle on one of the brooms you'll be out of this school before you can say Quidditch."

"Yes, Madam Hooch," the class said, subdued, and they all watched as Hooch led Longbottom away, supporting his wrist.

Harry let out a hard sigh, irritated. This was yet another thing to make this class go even _slower_.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a glint of reflected sunlight. He turned his head, but Malfoy was ahead of him. There was a flutter of black robes as Malfoy darted over and snatched the thing up in his hand.

"Well, well, well," he said, smirking. "It's Longbottom's Remembrall."

"Give it here, Malfoy," the Weasley boy said, and the previously murmuring class went silent.

"I don't think so," Malfoy said, grey eyes alight with mischief. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find…perhaps in a tree, or maybe atop the castle battlements."

"Give it HERE!" Weasley shouted, his face flushing a deep red, but Malfoy had already snagged a broom, lightning quick, and leapt into the air. He really _could_ fly well, Harry noted in disappointment. He had clearly received lessons; he floated effortlessly through the air as though he were an eagle.

One of the Gryffindor girls shouted something, bringing Harry's attention from the boy on the broom. Weasley was enraged, face matching his fiery hair, too angry to listen to reason as he grabbed another broom. His face looked up into the blue sky, where Malfoy was just a darkly-clad blot against the sunlight, then he swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground.

He too was an able flier, Harry thought grumpily. While not as slender and compact as Malfoy, he handled himself on a broom with surprising grace as he shot up into the air. Harry sighed and hoped Hooch would get back soon.

"Give it here, Malfoy, or I'll knock you off that broom!" Weasley's voice called, carried down to them on the wind. Malfoy's reply was quieter and out of hearing, but he turned and flew away, hand out to the side and clenched around the ball…taunting.

Weasley shot forward before Malfoy got very far, sending them both wobbling badly as he caught Malfoy's broom's tail. Malfoy turned and shouted something angrily, and Weasley renewed his threat. Malfoy raised his hand, yelled something incomprehensible…and threw it.

It fell from the sky and hit the ground, breaking into thousands of tiny glass shards.

Weasley howled in rage and flung his broom forward, colliding with the other boy, who was slightly too slow to get out of the way. With a yell, they tangled together and dropped like a stones.

But they didn't hit the ground. Ten feet above the grass they slowed to a halt, hovering, both of them with their mouths stretched wide in silent screams.

"MR. WEASLEY! MR. MALFOY!"

"Uh oh," Harry said, containing a grin. This was even better than he'd hoped – it wasn't Madam Hooch who returned, but the tall, imposing figure of the Gryffindor Head of House.

"I think there's going to some expulsions today-ay," Harry said under his breath. His lips stretched wide in a mischievous smile.

By then both boys were on the ground again, let down from whatever spell kept them in the air. They scrambled to their feet at once. Weasley was beet red in the face, staring at the ground, but Malfoy opened his mouth as soon as his robes were straight.

"Professor, Weasley here chased me right off the ground! It wasn't my fault at all, Professor, he's the one who taunted and insulted me so much I just got on a broom to get away from him – "

"That's not true at all!" Weasley erupted angrily. "Malfoy took Neville's Remembrall, Professor, and said he was going to leave it on the battlements for him to find, and – "

"Weasley tried to knock me off my broom!" Malfoy protested loudly. "He nearly got me killed!"

" – and then he threw Neville's Remembrall, Professor, and it broke on the ground!"

"He's insane, and my father will hear about this!"

"Silence, both of you," McGonagall snapped, and Harry thought he'd never seen anyone so angry in his life. Malfoy and Weasley both seemed to agree, and they instantly fell silent. She reached out and grabbed them both by an ear. "A more foolish, idiotic stunt I've never seen in my life," she spat as she dragged them away. "You _both_ could have been killed!"

Her voice faded out of hearing range as she stalked away, Malfoy and Weasley bobbing around on her hands, whimpering and yelping in pain.

Harry cackled with laughter.

"Their _faces_," he choked, clutching his ribs. The class started chuckling nervously, beginning to see the amusement in the entire incident. Pansy looked torn between anger and a desire to join in. The Gryffindors looked alternately angry and delighted; angry that their house mate was in trouble, delighted that Slytherin was in the same situation.

Up by the castle doors, McGonagall paused as Hooch stepped out onto the grass. They talked for a moment, and Hooch put her hands on her hips and glared at the boys, then nodded. McGonagall pushed open the door and dragged Malfoy and Weasley inside, while Hooch continued towards the class, for whatever time they had remaining to them.

"All right," she said briskly. "Now that that's over with, we'll try this again. Everyone mount up, that's right, and on my whistle now…three, two, one…"

Harry kicked off from the ground. In an instant, he understood the mentality surrounding Quidditch. With a rush of pure joy and delight, he realized that this was something he could do without being taught. This was as easy and natural as breathing. Every shift of his weight made the broom respond, every tilt of his shoulders or movement of his hands. Around him were delighted and nervous yelps and cheers, and laughter as people wobbled and dropped and turned around slowly, but all that was distant. Harry's kick had carried him out of their range.

He saw Madam Hooch tilt her head back and shield her eyes to watch him, but he didn't care. With a soft huff of laughter, Harry shifted his weight – just a fraction – and shot forward. He let the broom fly straight for a split second, in which he flew fifty yards easily, then another shift had the broom stopping and spinning on a dime. He dove and skimmed the grass with his toes, then rose again. Other fliers swirled around him now, giving him room, watching him. Harry pointed the broom straight up and shot into the sky, spiraling tightly. When he reached the apex of his climb he slowed and felt weightless, then turned. The broom rotated gently to point nose-down, and he let it drop again, having to cling to the broom to be sure he didn't fly off into space since the broom was dragging him down faster than he could fall.

The entire thing took mere seconds, from kickoff to straight dive. He pulled up just short of the ground, laughing breathlessly and unreservedly. When the sound of rushing wind died away, he heard the other first years laughing with him; laughing and cheering. Hooch was grinning broadly, looking so thrilled she could hardly stand still.

"That was amazing, Potter," she said, eyes aglow. "A true natural, I'd say, just like your father."

"My father," Harry gasped, still breathless. Hooch nodded, smiling.

Class didn't last much longer. Within moments Hooch was calling them all down to the ground. It took all of Harry's strength to let go of the broom and swing his leg over. Then he stood looking at his forlornly, aching to be in the air again. He felt heavy and ungainly all of a sudden, as though standing on the ground was unnatural, something he'd been trained to do, like a dog trained to stand on two legs.

Hooch praised them all and dismissed them to go to dinner. They trickled across the lawn in twos and threes, chattering about their lesson. A pair of Gryffindor girls could be heard worrying loudly about Longbottom, while the topics of choice were Malfoy and Weasley's incident and, oddly enough, Harry's flying skills. This last was discussed in softer tones, accompanied by odd looks. Harry's house mates looked especially smug.

When they filed into the Great Hall Harry peeled away towards the Gryffindor table, which was starting to fill as dinner hour got under way. Harry plopped down beside Weasley's older twin brothers, Fred and George, and started piling food onto his plate.

"Why, it's the littlest Potter!" one of the twins said, a wide smile spreading across his face. Harry frowned slightly at that.

"So I see, my dear Fred," said the other, apparently George although Harry wasn't going to take their word on it. "What's the Slytherin Potter doing at the Gryffindor table, I wonder?"

"Waiting for his brother," Harry said airily.

"Waiting for his brother," George mock muttered into his brother's ear. "Waiting for his _brother_, he says."

"Aye," Fred said, nodding sagely. "_Waiting_ for his _brother._"

"Sod off, you two," Nick's voice said from a few feet down the table. "You sound like utter berks."

"It's the biggest Potter!" Fred beamed. "Come down from on high to fraternize with us mortals!"

"Give it up," Nick rolled his eyes, grinning. "Hey Harry, how was the flying lesson?"

"Neville Longbottom broke a wrist, Malfoy and Weasley got into a fight and might have gotten expelled, and Madam Hooch said I fly as good as Dad did," Harry recited. Nick blinked.

"Hooch said that?" he asked, a smile stretching his mouth.

"Ron did _what?_" Fred asked, aghast.

"Longbottom dropped something when he fell," Harry started to explain. "It was something like a Rememball?"

"A Remembrall," Nick corrected, eyes alight in interest. "His Gran sent it to him."

"A Remembrall," Harry nodded. "He dropped it in the grass when he fell, and Malfoy picked it up. Weasley demanded it back and Malfoy grabbed a broom and flew off, and Weasley followed. I couldn't hear it all, but Weasley was shouting at him to give it back or he was going to knock Malfoy off his broom."

Fred and George both groaned in unison, an eerie sound.

"Then he almost _did_ knock Malfoy off his broom, so Malfoy threw the Remembrall and it broke in the grass, and Weasley ran into him and knocked them both out of the air. Professor McGonagall caught them before they hit the ground. I don't know what happened to them."

"McGonagall found them?" George asked in dismay. "Oh, he's done for now."

"Drat," Fred agreed gloomily. _"She's_ going to be watching the rest of us like hawks now."

"Who?" Harry asked curiously.

"Our mother," they said dully.

Then, before Harry could say anything to that, the doors to the Hall opened and Snape and McGonagall entered, each escorting a first year boy. Down the table, the fourth Weasley boy, Percy, rose to his feet, face a thundercloud of disapproval. McGonagall dragged Weasley over to the table, her mouth tight with anger.

"One toe out of line, Mr. Weasley," she threatened, then turned and stalked off towards the staff table.

Weasley was pale and looked shaken, and he sat down slowly, as if uncertain the seat would hold him.

"You're not expelled then?" Fred said abruptly.

"No," Weasley replied, scowling. "Just a month's detention."

"And points?" George asked pointedly, and his younger brother looked down, shamefaced.

"Forty," he mumbled, and there was a collective sigh from the table.

"Could be worse," someone murmured. "Could have been a _lot_ worse."

"What about Malfoy?" Harry asked avidly, leaning forward.

"Same," Ron mumbled.

"Even better," George said, leaning back.

Harry looked over towards the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting between his goons looking much the same as always. He stared hatefully at Weasley's back between conversing with the other Slytherins.

Harry turned away and scooped up a few slices of roast chicken.

For a while, the subject turned to Quidditch trials, which would take place that Saturday. Harry planned to be in attendance to watch his brother make the team. Harry knew that Nick wanted the remaining Chaser position, which Katie Bell also wanted. Harry didn't doubt that Nick would get the position, but he also knew Katie had experience in being a Seeker and so wouldn't be out of a position entirely.

Then there was a ripple of movement across the hall, and Harry turned to look. It was Malfoy, coming to make trouble and flanked by his bodyguards.

"Hanging with the riffraff, Potter?" he sneered when he got close enough. "Always knew you weren't a true Slytherin. Why don't you just change Houses and get out of our way, since you're not wanted in Slytherin?"

Nick leapt to his feet, turning scarlet with rage.

"Why you mangy little prat," Nick rasped, hoarse with fury. "Don't you dare talk about my brother that way, or I'll – "

"Funny that, Malfoy," Harry said loudly, trying to head Nick off. "Considering that the House nearly fell over itself to welcome me, when you got a lukewarm round of applause at best."

"And we're not riffraff, Malfoy," Ron Weasley spoke up angrily, and a bit lamely.

"Oooh," Malfoy said, smirking.

Up at the staff table, McGonagall was rising to her feet.

"McGonagall's coming," Harry hissed warningly. Malfoy looked around quickly, then back at them with glittering eyes.

"Wizard's duel then," he whispered. "A Triad; me, Potter, and Weasley. The trophy room at midnight. Be there, if you're brave enough."

With that, he turned and walked away, back towards the Slytherin table.

Nick let out an explosive huff of air and sat back down, scowling.

"Smarmy little git," Fred muttered irritably.

"What's a Triad, then?" Nick growled.

"It's a version of a Wizard's Duel," said a fourth year Gryffindor, scooting down towards them. "Instead of two wizards or witches dueling each other with seconds waiting on the sidelines, it's a more vicious version with three combatants, all enemies, with only one winner. There aren't any seconds, and it usually goes one of three ways. Either it's a free-for-all and everyone's going for everyone and the winner probably wins by luck, or someone sits out while the other two fight, then steps in and finishes the winner off, or two team up against the third, then turn on each other."

"It's a vicious fight, when it's between three powerful wizards who are all enemies," George picked up the explanation, "but this isn't that sort of thing. The most you'll be able to do is fling sparks at each other, maybe."

* * *

Back at the Slytherin common room, Malfoy was holding court in the corner furthest from the fire. Harry came in to raucous laughter from the group of first years, and a glimpse of smug victory on Malfoy's face when he turned to smirk at Harry. He didn't look at all worried, or even tense. In fact, he looked relaxed and content, as if he would be snug in his bed all night.

A trickle of suspicion wriggled in Harry's stomach as he pulled out his homework.

He wasn't wrong. At ten-o-clock Malfoy loudly proclaimed he was going upstairs to get dressed, staring right at Harry as he did it, then came back down at eleven-thirty. Harry was standing by the portrait, waiting.

"Oh, go on, Potter," Malfoy said airily, waving a hand. "You'll need the extra time to get to the trophy room – I know a short cut."

"As if, Malfoy," Harry said, not fooled for an instant. "After you…or are you too coward, like I've always thought? The little rich boy, hiding behind his father's skirts?"

There was some cackling laughter in the common room, older students watching the confrontation and snickering about it.

"Don't call me rich boy," Malfoy spat furiously, "or coward, and don't say my father wears skirts!"

"Then don't give me cause to," Harry retorted. _"After you!"_

Malfoy hesitated, wavering. Conflict raged behind his eyes, and Harry knew his suspicions had been correct – Malfoy had planned to stay behind. A second suspicion started to make itself known in Harry's chest, but Malfoy gave before it was fully developed.

"Fine," he spat, and stalked through the doors. Harry followed, noting that the prefects watched without saying anything. Instead, they smirked openly, anticipating either a victory or expulsion.

Harry ducked out of the common room, a strange foreboding making his skin crawl.

Malfoy was already far ahead, leather-soled boots clicking on the flagstones loudly. Harry hung back, grateful for his worn, black Muggle trainers and their silent rubber soles.

They reached the trophy room without incident, and Weasley was already there. He had brought an entourage – the other Gryffindor boys, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan…and Nick.

"Nicolas," Harry grinned when he saw his brother. Nick grinned back.

"I'm referee," Nick whispered back. "Meant to keep everything under control."

"We should make this quick," Malfoy said, and he looked more nervous than Harry thought appropriate – in fact, he looked almost terrified.

"Why?" Weasley demanded, just a bit too loud. "Scared, Malfoy?"

"As if," Malfoy retorted, face contorting. "You think you scare me? I'll have you know I've had dueling lessons my whole life!"

"That's enough," Nick said, scowling at Malfoy. All right, positions here, here, and here, backs to each other. All right? Ready, one, two – "

"Shh!" Harry hissed frantically, and grabbed Nick's arm, for he had heard something. Something low-toned and indistinct, like a deep male voice. It grew rapidly clearer, forming into understandable words.

"Sniff around, my sweet," the voice said querulously. "They might be lurking in a corner."

It was Filch, the nauseating caretaker, speaking to his corpse-like cat, Mrs. Norris. Harry whipped his head around, that dim suspicion flaring to life. Malfoy looked nauseous and terrified but oddly unsurprised.

Harry beckoned madly to Nick and fled towards the door, away from the voice. Malfoy crowded against him, scrambling as fast as he could. The other four Gryffindors had barely made it out when they heard Filch enter the trophy room, still murmuring to his cat.

Harry waved again, feeling his breath catch in his chest. Weasley looked positively green in the dim torchlight. Together, the seven students tiptoed down the corridor, dodging suits of armour; and then the inevitable happened. Longbottom let out a frightened squeak and took off at a run, tripped, fell into Weasley, and the pair of them toppled over into a suit of armour. The crashing and clanging could have woke the whole castle.

Harry bolted with Malfoy on his heels, leaving the Gryffindors to extract themselves. He glanced behind to see Nick skid to a stop and go back. Harry groaned under his breath and slid to a halt, turning to watch his brother shove bits of armour off the other two boys and heave them to their feet, and then pick up a run. Harry took off again, leading them down one corridor and then another, through a hidden passageway and then to the corridor near the Charms classroom, miles from the trophy room. Harry slowed to a stop and doubled over, panting. He noticed right away that Malfoy was gone.

"Where's Malfoy?" he gasped, hands on his knees, but no one knew. Harry thought he remembered that Malfoy had kept going when Harry had stopped for Nick.

"We've got to get back to Gryffindor," Weasley gasped, clutching a stitch in his chest. "Quickly, come on."

Nick looked at Harry, clearly torn, but there wasn't enough time for Harry to reassure him and send him on his way.

Peeves the Poltergeist zoomed out of an unused classroom. Harry knew at once who it was, Flint's words at the Sorting Feast returning to him abruptly when Peeves gave a squeal of utter, malicious delight.

"Shut up, Peeves – please – you'll get us thrown out," Nick entreated, but Peeves only cackled.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut tut – _oh!"_

"What?" Harry asked dumbly, looking around himself to see what had caught Peeves' attention. He turned back to the poltergeist, who still stared directly at Harry with a horrified, fascinated expression on his wide, wicked face.

"IT'S THE SPEAKER!" Peeves bellowed, wheeling around and shooting away down the corridor. "MAKE WAY FOR THE SPEAKER!"

The noise Peeves made was tremendous, almost instantly there was the distant bang of a slamming door and loud, hurried footsteps. They ran for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a heavy, locked door.

"Oh, this is it," Weasley gasped, pushing at the door hopelessly. "We're done for."

"Get out of the way," Nick snarled, shoving the other redhead over. He snatched out his wand and tapped it lightly against the door, whispering _"Alohomora!"_ The door clicked and opened, and they all rushed in and slammed it shut behind them. On the other side, they heard Filch arrive, out of breath.

"Did you see students out of bed, Peeves?" he demanded. "Which way did they go?"

"Say 'please.'"

"Don't mess with me, Peeves, now _where did they go!"_

"I shan't say nothing unless you say please!"

"All right – _please!"_

"NOTHING!! Ha haa! I told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha haaa!" And then there was the sound of Peeves zooming away and Filch cursing in rage.

"He thinks this door is locked," Harry whispered to his brother, who was also leaning against the door to listen.

"Yeah, I think we'll be okay, and what the hell was that? What's a speaker? And – get _off_ Neville…_what?"_

Harry and Nick turned, and understood immediately. The room wasn't empty like they'd thought. In fact, Harry realized with a rush of terror, it was the forbidden corridor on the third floor, and Harry abruptly knew exactly _why_ it was forbidden.

It was a vast, three-headed dog. Three pairs of dark eyes stared in their direction, three noses sniffed the air, and three enormous, fang-filled mouths dribbled saliva onto the floor.

Thunderous growls began to well up from the dog's chest, and Harry fumbled behind him for the door. Filch versus gigantic three-headed dog that could swallow him whole? An easy decision, really. When you thought about it.

Harry and Nick fell backward, each dragging another student with them. The others shot out like cannons from a gun, and Harry shoved Thomas away from him and leapt for the door. Nick lunged to help him shove it closed, and then they ran down the halls until they came to a junction at the stairs. Thomas, Weasley, Finnigan, Longbottom, and Nick turned to go up, and Harry paused for one wild moment.

"Tomorrow," he gasped, and Nick nodded, his eyes so wide the whites could be seen around the entire dark iris, then Harry turned and leapt down the stairs like a gazelle, too wired to go slowly or quietly. Within moments, he was skidding to a stop outside the Slytherin common room and gasping out the password.

He stumbled into a nearly empty room. Only Malfoy was there, collapsed bonelessly on the sofa, slack-faced. Harry doubled over, trying to catch his breath, his legs trembling from a mixture of terror, adrenaline, and exhaustion.

"Where have you been?" Malfoy asked finally.

"Met Peeves," Harry gulped.

It took him several long moments for him to catch his breath, then that suspicion reared its head again, and Harry turned to look at Malfoy with narrowed, angry eyes.

"You tipped him off, didn't you," he said slowly, but Malfoy only lifted his chin defiantly, and didn't answer. But Harry already knew. "You – you," he struggled, feeling his own face flush in anger. "You _fucking idiot!"_

Malfoy's jaw dropped, and Harry whirled around and stalked away towards the dormitories. On the way, his fierce anger faded away enough for him to remember the strange happenings he'd seen; Peeves' utterly bizarre behavior, and the surprise in the corridor on the third floor…a small square door beneath the dog's feet.

* * *


	10. Peeves

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

* * *

**Chapter Ten:** Peeves

* * *

Harry later decided to put the mystery out of his mind for now, deciding that the Hogwarts' ghosts were cracked and that as long as that dog was there, he was never going to know what it was guarding. Instead, he turned his attention instead to the coming Saturday, when Quidditch trials were scheduled.

Saturday dawned almost painfully bright, as Harry found out when he emerged from the dungeons. He was up early, earlier than all his dorm mates, in part because he knew Nicolas would be up just as early and a nervous wreck to boot, and in part because his sleep had been rife with restless dreaming, vague and indecipherable.

As was normal for him, Harry sat down for breakfast at the Gryffindor table, where Nick was behaving true to form. He was white and looking shaky as he moved his scrambled eggs around on his plate.

"Morning, Nick," Harry said, sitting down beside Jon and across the table from his brother.

"Morning, Harry," Nick grunted in reply, and a chorus of _"Morning, Harry,"_ rippled down the table. Harry waved a hand and grinned at the others, and nodded at Katie on the other side of Jon.

"Ready for trials?" Harry asked, directing his words at Nick and Katie. Katie nodded eagerly, looking determined, while Nick just looked even sicker. Harry glanced surreptitiously at his watch – the time read seven-ten a.m. and the trials weren't set to start until ten-thirty. Harry groaned under his breath. It was going to be a long morning.

And he was right. He spent the entire breakfast hour trying to get Nick eager to go for it and give it his all, and then switched to trying to get his brother's mind off it completely. Nothing seemed to work, and it was a very tired and very relieved Harry that sent his brother off to change into his Quidditch gear.

That done, he headed out to the pitch to get a good seat. He'd purposely done his best to disguise the green trim on his school robes, going so far as to put on his cloak and snitching a Gryffindor scarf despite the fine day. A Slytherin would not be looked on favorably at the Gryffindor Quidditch Trials.

It seemed to work; Harry got a good spot in the stands behind the Weasley prefect with a good view of the pitch and still close enough to the ground to see the Quidditch hopefuls. There were a lot of them too, Harry noticed with a pang of unease, and Nick and Katie were by far the youngest – and smallest. One particular sixth year had to have had three stone on Nick, at least.

It seemed luck was with the younger players that day, though – fifth year Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood seemed disinclined to taking on a player older than him, and being forced to hold trials again in a year or two rather than training a single player for several years. The sixth year played the Chaser position respectably, but he didn't shine at it.

In fact, until Nick went the only player that really played spectacularly was Katie.

She was fast and determined in the air, and an excellent shot. She landed flushed with exhilaration and victory, giving Nick a challenging look.

But the second Nick took to the air, Harry knew he would get the spot. Not that Katie was in any way a bad flier, but Nick flew like he was unsupported. He flew as if he felt what Harry felt while in the air, as if he belonged there and never wanted to land.

Oliver Wood was so excited he couldn't hold still, and although Official Postings wouldn't be announced until the next day, there was no doubt who had earned the coveted Chaser's position.

Down on the grass, Katie glumly patted Nick on the back, who turned and started speaking to her earnestly. As he talked, she grew more animated, less disappointed looking. After a moment, she nodded, and Nick grinned.

A short time later, Katie returned to the field for the Seeker trials, her face set in a grim and determined expression. And now, with Nick off the field, she trumped the competition for the important position, and looked delighted as she descended to the grass. Nick was cheering for her from the field, a wide smile barely visible on his face.

Not wanting to get caught in a Gryffindor uproar, Harry snuck away, smiling broadly.

* * *

Slytherin had no open spots that season, so there were no trials. It was perfect for Harry, who knew first years were never allowed on the school teams, but second years were, and the Seeker position would open up when Higgs graduated next year just in time for Harry to try out for it.

With this in mind, Harry looked forward to the next flying lesson, two weeks after the first. Both Malfoy and Weasley were banned from the lessons for the rest of the year, and although both could be heard defensively declaring that they didn't need stupid flying lessons anyway, Harry was very glad of the chance to catch up in experience while Malfoy lounged around eating his mother's care packages.

So on Thursday, the twenty-sixth day of September, Harry was the first out of the castle. He had enough time to carefully examine each broom until he found one that looked almost respectable; it was a little worn down, but there weren't too many splinters and most of the twigs were still straight. He was crouching down beside it when the rest of the Slytherins arrived, Zabini in the lead.

"Eager much, Potter?" Zabini drawled when he came into earshot. Harry tilted his head up against the glaring sunlight, smiling a little.

"This is my chance, yes? When Malfoy's sitting on his arse."

"Your chance for what, Potter?" Pansy asked scornfully. "The Seeker's position? In your dreams!"

"We'll see," Harry said, eyes flashing irritably, and then there was no more time for talking because Hooch was bounding down the steps of the castle and hurrying towards them.

"Sorry I'm late, class," she called. "Dratted staircases. All right, everyone next to a broom? You all remember last lesson, don't you? You know the drill – UP!"

"Up!" the class shouted, and most of the students got their brooms into their hands, more or less, although Longbottom had to pick his up from the ground.

"Very good," Hooch said briskly, ignoring Longbottom in favor of nodding at everyone else. "Mount up, and on my whistle again – Longbottom, you stay on the ground until everyone else is up in the air – three, two, one…"

The whistle sounded, and Harry kicked off from the ground, sheer joy overwhelming him. Like before, his initial kick took him far out of range of the other students, catapulting him up into the sky. They hovered below him like large, clumsy insects, jerky and wobbly.

Like before, Hooch let him be as she lectured the other students, merely watching him out of the corner of her eye as he swooped and darted this way and that.

And like before, when it came time to dismount, Harry felt awkward, clumsy, and ungainly on the ground…but Hooch's face was glowing.

"You'll be playing on your House team next year, Potter, or I'll eat my hat," she declared when they had all landed on the ground. Harry felt his mouth stretch in a wide smile.

"I intend to be," he replied.

"Good," she said briskly. "I shall speak with your Head of House."

As Harry accompanied his House mates back to the castle, Pansy Parkinson caught up to him, her face twisted into an ugly glare.

"You think you're so good, Potter," she spat viciously, "but you're nothing next to Draco. He's to have the position next year."

"We'll see," Harry said, and he didn't have to force the smugness into his voice that made her face twist up even more. Harry's mouth stretched wide, exposing his teeth in a wicked, mischievous smile.

Pansy stomped away in a huff.

* * *

That night Professor Snape caught up to him just outside the Great Hall, calling his name. Harry stopped, confused, as his Head of House strode up to him.

"Hungry, Potter?" Snape asked conversationally, and Harry blinked in bemusement.

"Sorry?" he asked in confusion.

"Are you _hungry_, boy?"

"Er, yes sir," Harry replied, furrowing his brow.

"Shame then, because you'll be missing dinner tonight. Come with me."

Whispers flew through the ranks of assembled first year Slytherins, and Harry saw Malfoy smirking widely out of the corner of his eye. Worried now, Harry broke out of the group and followed the tall, dark figure of his Professor as he strode down the corridor, past the entrance to the Great Hall.

They left the castle and emerged into the rapidly darkening evening, and strode off down the hill towards the Forbidden Forest. Within a few yards Harry could make out a strange, soft glow in the fading dusk, coming from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Curious, he picked up speed, hurrying now.

The glow was from a dozen large globes that were situated around the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch, a bit like stadium lights but not as blinding. In the center of the pitch, in full Quidditch gear, was Madam Hooch.

Harry felt his breath catch in eager anticipation. She'd mentioned speaking to Professor Snape – this was it.

"Hello, Potter," Hooch said amiably when they stopped beside her. "I've taken the liberty of asking Professor Snape here tonight, so we can really put you through your paces without anyone here to see. Ready?"

"Yes," Harry said emphatically.

"Excellent," she responded, smiling. "There's some gear in the trunk over there, although we'll have to make do without proper Quidditch robes."

Harry moved towards the trunk, taking out a pair of fingerless gloves, wrist-guards, shin-guards, and goggles.

"I can transfigure his robes," Snape said from behind him, and Harry straightened curiously.

"Excellent, that would be most helpful," Hooch said, sounding relieved, and Snape waved his wand twice. Harry's robes abruptly changed shape, becoming tan trousers and an emerald green jersey-like shirt, overlaid by an open-front green robe that fastened at the throat, with wide sleeves that ended just past his elbows. Harry grinned in delight and wasted no time putting on the Quidditch gear that was piled at his feet.

That done, Hooch handed him the broom he'd flown that afternoon in her lesson, and Harry kicked off from the ground.

Flying at night was utterly amazing, Harry thought. Just something about the cool night air rushing past his ears…

"I'm letting out the Bludgers," Hooch called up, warning him, and Harry looked down in fascination as she opened up a second, as yet unnoticed chest. Two huge balls – the infamous Bludgers – zoomed out. One shot towards Snape, who deflected it with a swift charm, and the other gave chase after Harry.

Harry yelped, rolled gracefully out of the way, and laughed at his own fright, then he caught a glint of gold as Hooch released the Snitch. His mind clicked into immediate focus, keeping an eye on the Bludgers while he searched swiftly and methodically for the tiny, elusive ball.

He felt Hooch's and Snape's eyes on him the entire time, burning like a brand between his shoulder blades, and the few minutes it took him to spot the Snitch felt like years – but spot it he did.

It was hovering down the field, near the ground by the goal-posts. Harry saw it when one of the glowing balls reflected light off it as it skimmed along near the ground, and before Harry made a conscious decision he was off like an arrow, flat against the broom. Wind rushed so loud in his ears it made his head ache, but he reached the other side of the pitch in a mere handful of instants, and then he was spiraling under his broom as he dived, moving by instinct alone.

A split second later, the Snitch was in his hand, wings fluttering helplessly against his fingers. He looked down at Hooch, grinning broadly, and Snape, who looked on impassively with his arms crossed.

Harry grinned and let the Snitch go again, gave it a head start, then darted after it again. This time he caught it in mere seconds.

As the time went on Harry began instinctively getting a feel for the Snitch's moves and decisions, found himself taking shortcuts that paid off, or heading in a specific direction, just knowing that the Snitch would show up there in just a moment.

By the time Hooch called him down, he was high on adrenaline and laughing giddily…and Hooch looked just as happy as he felt.

Snape was still impassive, but Harry knew he'd caught the man's attention. It was just a matter of time now.

* * *

Suddenly, the days were flying past. Harry's time was divided between classes, his brother, homework, eating, sleeping, and flying, of which he had a lesson a week. One lesson was the usual Thursdays at three-thirty every two weeks, but he also had an extra lesson every other Monday evening during dinner with Madam Hooch, who was determined to make him the best Quidditch player he could be.

She went so far as to bring twice the normal amount of Bludgers on the field, then three times, then four, until eight Bludgers zoomed around the dimly glowing pitch and he dodged and weaved while searching for the tiny, elusive golden ball.

Until suddenly he'd been at Hogwarts for nearly two months.

On Halloween, the school awoke to the delicious scent of baking pumpkin wafting through the halls, which would have made things miserable – all the distracted stomach grumbling – except for the fact that classes had suddenly become so much more interesting.

In Charms after lunch, Professor Flitwick told them they'd learned enough to start making objects fly, something Harry was quite eager to try. He had them pair up to share a feather. As usual Harry's partner was Zabini, who went first.

It wasn't as easy as Harry had thought it would be, clearly. He looked around in bemusement as students waved their wands haphazardly and shouted in garbled Latin.

Zabini was only marginally better than that. He at least kept his movements rather more subtle, and didn't shout – but despite this, their feather remained stubbornly on the desk and showed no inclination to fly.

"Maybe you're doing it wrong," Harry ventured after a while. He'd been keeping an eye on the tables closest to him and noted which tables got the most results, and which tables one did _not_ want to emulate…like Crabbe, when he set his feather on fire.

Zabini let out an explosive breath of air and threw down his wand, saying, "You try it then."

Harry picked up his wand and studied the feather intently, remembering the instructions. They'd been practicing the wand movement for weeks, so Harry thought – or rather hoped – that he would have it down by then.

"Swish and flick," he murmured under his breath, "and proper pronunciation. _Wingardium Leviosa!"_

The feather twitched and went spinning off the desk, and Zabini yelped and stumbled back in surprise. Harry flushed and went to fetch it.

"_WinGARdium Leviosa!"_ Harry insisted, to the same effect, only this time the feather went and stabbed Daphne Greengrass in the back of the neck.

"Oh, _bloody – _sorry, Greengrass," Harry called sheepishly. "Blasted feather – here, thanks," he said, taking the feather she handed back to him.

Zabini was smirking all over his dark face as Harry flung himself back into his seat. "One more try," Zabini wheedled. "I want to see you hit that prat Nott in the back of the head, too."

Harry scowled but gamely raised his wand.

"Win_gar_dium Levi_o_sa," he tried, swishing his wand hard, and the feather shot up towards the ceiling so fast it was a white blur, then stuck there with the point buried in the solid stone, quivering gently.

"Ai," Harry said, startled, and the entire class turned to gape at his feather.

"A bit too much power there, Mr. Potter," Flitwick squeaked, looking shaken. "But very good, very good indeed – five points to Slytherin! Now just work on your control, please – a little less _oomph_, if you don't mind…"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, a little breathlessly.

"Damn, Potter," Zabini said when Flitwick turned away. "That was quite a charm."

"Urgh," Harry replied, and spent the rest of the class with his hands folded on his lap and his wand safely in his pocket.

Clattering rapidly down the staircase next to Zabini after class, Harry was still caught up in thinking of his bizarrely strong levitation in Charms when there was a startled yelp from behind him, his only warning. Before he had time to turn and look, something shoved him in the back, hard. He caught a glimpse of Zabini ducking sideways beside him and then he was airborne over the stairs.

He didn't even have time to make a sound as he instinctively tucked his head down and rolled, then hit the stairs hard on his back. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and the stairs bit deeply into his neck, shoulders, back, and legs, then he bounced and flipped again. He managed to take the subsequent impact on his hands and elbows, and then he was rolling and crashing down the remaining stairs to slide to a rest at the bottom, gasping for air but miraculously still conscious.

Dimly, he heard shouting from up the stairs, and screaming from somewhere to his left, and a funny cackling sort of sound, like laughter but not quite, and then his ears stopped working so good and everything got really muted sounding, as if coming from underwater, and then there were hands on him, holding his twitching limbs still, pressing two fingers against his throat, bracing his head to keep his neck immobile. Someone was screaming, and the sound made Harry's head ache.

Then there was another sound, a low-toned, muted voice; a baritone. A larger, warmer hand pressed against his neck, and the voice cracked whip-like above him, barking out orders, and then, "Can you hear me, Potter?"

Harry could understand it, if he tried, but everything ached and he couldn't seem to open his eyes. Just breathing took all the energy he had.

"_Mobilicorpus,"_ the voice said, and Harry realized who it was – it was Professor Snape, who lifted him off the ground and onto what was probably a stretcher – and after that, everything went really dim and quiet for a while, except for some strange, bright flashes of intermittent light.

* * *

He came awake in the white light of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. His eyes opened easily and he took a quick inventory – there was no pain anywhere in his body. Gingerly he sat up, marveling at the wonders of medical magic.

Further down in the wing, the tall, spare figure of Harry's Head of House loomed, contrasting against the white walls and speaking quietly to Madam Pomfrey. Harry listened but couldn't make anything out, so he cleared his throat quietly.

"Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, businesslike as she bustled over to him. "Feeling all right? No pains? Headache? Sore neck? No? Then you can go, if you like."

"Yes," Harry said, and swung his legs over the bed, relieved that he was still in his student robes. "Sir," he added, looking up at the Professor, "what happened?"

"Something of a freak accident," Snape replied. "Peeves was not watching where he was going."

"_Peeves_ pushed me?" Harry asked, bewildered. "I didn't know he could do that."

"Peeves is a poltergeist, not an incorporeal ghost, Mr. Potter," Snape sneered. "He is a manifestation of student emotions, and as such can affect the living world."

"Oh," Harry murmured, a little abashed.

"Nonetheless," Snape continued, "he crossed a line when he knocked you down the stairs. He will be suitably dealt with, Mr. Potter, rest assured."

"All right," Harry nodded.

"You will miss the feast," Snape hinted, and Harry jumped to his feet in relief.

"Yes, sir," he called behind him, already hurrying towards the door.

* * *

The Great Hall was nearly full by the time Harry got there, and he made a beeline straight for his brother at the Gryffindor table, who was looking stressed and uncomfortable. Nick saw him when he was a few yards away and leapt to his feet, an expression of utter relief crossing his face.

"_Harry,"_ he said, and there was relief in his voice as well as on his face. "You're all right! I heard that Peeves knocked you off the stairs and you were in the Hospital Wing but when I tried to visit you they wouldn't let me in!"

"Don't worry about it, Nicolas," Harry shrugged. "I don't remember being in the Hospital Wing anyways, so I wouldn't have been good company. Madam Pomfrey woke me up and said that I could go."

"Good job you didn't miss the Feast," Jon said, patting Harry on the back when he was close enough. "That would be a major bummer."

"Zabini thought you'd broken your neck," Nick said plaintively, face settling into worried lines again. "He came running to find me after Defense."

"I'm fine, Nick," Harry said reassuringly. "Madam Pomfrey fixed me up in just a few minutes, and Snape said he's going to deal with Peeves. And I made it to the feast, which is the only thing that matters, right?"

"Right!" Jon agreed, nodding his head. Harry grinned at him.

"Your House mates look worried, Harry," Katie said, nodding across the hall towards the Slytherin table. Harry turned and looked.

She was right, although it was beneath Slytherins to ever _look_ worried. To a student, their faces were calm and impassive, but they were betrayed by the flicker of their eyes in Harry's direction. Zabini especially kept him in his sights.

"You'd better go," Nick said, already looking calmer. "You should sit with your House."

"Yes," Harry said, rising to his feet. "See you."

"See you," Nick echoed, and Harry set off across the hall. Halfway there Zabini spotted him and nudged Nott beside him to make room. Harry nodded in thanks.

"Head still on your neck, I see," Zabini drawled when he sat down.

"So far," Harry replied airily, and Zabini looked satisfied, and served himself some potatoes.

Down the table, Prefect Hallswayde turned her head and stared at Harry for a long moment, and Harry blinked deliberately back. Hallswayde turned away.

Message sent and received.

_All right?_

_Yes._

* * *

Harry had been looking forward to the feast, which had smelled so delicious all day – but it apparently was too much to ask for to have a nice, quiet evening with his House mates.

Harry had just served himself a helping of roast when a panicked-looking Professor Quirrell sprinted into the Hall, turban askew and a wild, crazed look on his face…an expression of complete and utter terror.

"Troll!" he shrieked as he staggered to a halt in the middle of the Hall. "Troll, in the dungeons!" he gasped and swallowed hard, and managed to garble out in a weakening voice, "Thought you ought to know," before his trembling legs gave out in a faint.

Harry stared, then threw his fork down onto his plate as the students around him leapt to their feet, in an instant uproar. He noted as he pushed himself to his feet that Quirrell looked to be in danger of being trampled.

There were several loud bangs from the direction of the staff table – Dumbledore was on his feet, wand out, his deep voice rumbling loudly from his chest.

"Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

"Come on, Slytherins!" one of the seventh year prefects called loudly. "Stick together, line up two deep. Follow me!"

Harry looked longingly at his roast and sighed as he joined the throng, moving slowly towards the doors as the Professors rushed ahead of them. Snape flew down to meet the line of Slytherins, long legs eating up the distance.

"Directly to the common room, Slytherins," he barked. "Fast as you can. Stay together, and stay on guard! If you see any sign of the troll, signal the dungeon alarms, and a Professor with come to you, understand?"

The prefects were nodding, and Snape whirled around and rushed towards the doors – away from the dungeons. Harry stared after him, but the prefects were shouting and rounding them up, and Harry lost sight of his Professor as older students ushered them in close and began guiding them towards the common room.

It was a slow process, for they moved only in sections. The seventh year prefects would scout ahead with their wands out to make sure the section of dungeons immediately ahead was safe, then return for the remainder of the House which would then move forward as a unit, and then stop as the prefects scouted the next section.

But half way there, Harry suddenly staggered sideways, growing dizzily lightheaded. He bumped into the tall, spare form of Theodore Nott, who stumbled to the side under Harry's weight before he managed to catch himself. Harry fell to his knees, blindly clutching his head and keening softly in the back of his throat.

Behind his closed eyelids, there were flashes of light. He caught a glimpse of pale, freckled skin and dark red hair, a closed door marked _Girls_, and a hand pushing it open. Behind the door, in the girls' toilet, was the sound of screaming.

Harry came to with a strangled gasp, lurching to his feet. Zabini and Nott each had one of his arms, supporting him as he wavered.

Harry tried to speak, but it felt almost like his mouth was no longer connected to his brain – and his brain was occupied with one thing. It was like a compulsion, not something he could have denied even if he'd wanted to.

Not that he would want to.

Harry shook himself free and bolted, back the way they'd come.

Nick had found the troll.

* * *

Harry wasn't even thinking about where he was going. Instinct – or perhaps something else entirely – guided his sprinting footsteps up the stairs and to the corridor that housed the girls' toilet. There was the sound of banging and crashing, spaced with intermittent, deafening roars and the occasional scream or shout. Harry flung himself at the door and slammed it open.

The toilet was in shambles – the basins were torn off the walls completely, the partitions flattened as if by a mighty blow. Jon was slumped in a heap against the far wall, barely conscious. He had a long, jagged cut on his head, slowly seeping blood. A large chunk of stone basin was beside him, looking very battered as if it had been wrenched from the wall itself.

Under what remained of the basins, a bushy-haired girl in Ravenclaw colours huddled out of sight, wildly frightened eyes taking in the scene of devastation, and in the middle of the room, roaring furiously, was the troll.

It was twelve feet tall at least, its skin a dull, mottled granite gray, lumpy and leathery like an elephant's. It's body was huge and blocky, and almost comical with its comparatively tiny head sitting atop it like a coconut. It stood on short legs like tree trunks, had arms like a gorilla's that nearly dragged on the ground, and was holding an enormous wooden club over its head as it advanced slowly on Harry's brother.

Nick looked terrified and determined as he backed away slowly, wand in his hand. Harry yelped, _"Nick!"_

The troll heard the sound and turned towards him, and Nick looked a strange mixture of utterly relieved and even more terrified.

The troll lumbered faster, and Harry fell backwards into a crouch, feeling his shoulders tense and his focus sharpen. The troll raised his club, preparing to bring it down on Harry's head. Harry gritted his teeth and raised his wand – this would be a perfect time for that too-powerful Levitation Charm.

But then Nick took a leap that one only takes when absolutely desperate. He charged forward and managed to jump high enough to wrap his arms around the troll's neck from behind – and Harry, facing the troll, had a perfect view of the wand in Nick's hand going straight up one of the troll's nostrils.

The troll shrieked and rocked backwards, arms flailing. Nick took a glancing blow to his shoulder and went white with pain.

Harry screamed; a full-throated howl of fear and anger and determination. A rush of magic sizzled red-hot through his shoulders and arms and out through his fingertips, which were extended out in front of him. The surge of magic hit the troll in the knees, breaking them both, and the troll fell forward with a howl of agony. Nick rolled clear with a yelp and scrambled to his feet, favoring his shoulder.

Harry went down onto his knees, exhaustion rolling through him in the wake of the surge.

The troll kept howling, loud, plaintive…agonized.

Over the din, none of the students heard the sound of approaching footsteps until they were right outside the door, which flung open to reveal Professor McGonagall with her hat askew. Snape and Quirrell followed, each of them wild-eyed and frantic. Snape's eyes focused immediately on Harry, slumped on the ground.

"Potter!" he barked, and crouched down beside him. "Are you hurt?"

Harry tried to make his mouth work, but his entire face felt numb and stiff.

"He did something," Nick said in a small voice, barely audible over the troll's moans.

"What did he do?" Snape demanded.

"I don't know," Nick admitted, wincing as he held his shoulder. "He made the troll's knees break. Without his wand."

"Magic overexertion," McGonagall said, waving her wand. The troll's moans were instantly silenced. "What were you _thinking?"_

In the sudden quiet, the question rang ominously.

"It was my fault, Professor McGonagall," said a small voice, and everyone turned to look. It was the little Ravenclaw girl, Hermione Granger, top of the entire year…to Malfoy's endless frustration.

"Miss Granger?" McGonagall asked, astonished. Hermione began to cry, and stomped her foot on the tiled floor.

"It was that horrible _boy_, Ron Weasley," she sobbed. "He called me a bloody little upstart know-it-all who would never have any friends. So I came here," she sniffed. "I wasn't hungry," she added tearfully.

"I heard one of the first year girls saying she'd been in the girls' toilet all afternoon, crying," Nick spoke up anxiously. "She didn't know about the troll, so Jon and I came to get her." Nick pointed to where Jon was rubbing his head blearily by the wall, and Jon waved his hand back sheepishly. "Only, it was already here," Nick went on, his voice infused with remembered dismay.

"It was about to clobber me," Hermione admitted, "but Jon and Nick started shouting and throwing things at it. The sounds confused it, but Jon still got hit with a b-bit of st-stone."

"I'm all right, Hermione," Jon said reassuringly. "Just a scratch."

"And what about you, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked sharply, her beady eyes finding Harry's.

"Same," Harry lied, although it was an effort to speak and left him winded. "Mandy Brocklehurst has been ranting about Ron Weasley all afternoon."

"Harry did something," Nick repeated. "He made its knees break."

"He is lucky to be conscious," Snape snapped, getting stiffly to his feet. "Can you stand, Mr. Potter?"

"Mmm," Harry mumbled, but made no effort to move. He thought he might fall over if he did. Snape bent down, grabbed him by the upper arms and heaved him to his feet, where he swayed dizzily.

"Well," McGonagall said briskly, "this seems like an eclectic mix of circumstances, don't you agree Professor Snape? I will certainly be having a word with Mr. Weasley – perhaps a letter to his parents as well."

She regarded the four bedraggled students with a gimlet eye. "I suppose," she said, then paused for a moment before continuing. "Five points to Gryffindor each for Mr. Potter and Mr. Bonham, and five to Slytherin…for sheer dumb luck. Mr. Potter – both Mr. Potters – and Mr. Bonham as well – oh, goodness, all of you to the Hospital Wing, _yes,_ even you Miss Granger."

"Mr. Potter can come with me," Snape said authoritatively. "He is in need of sleep, not Healing Charms."

"If you insist, Professor Snape," McGonagall said crisply. "The rest of you, _go."_

"Come along, Mr. Potter," Snape growled, and supported a clumsy Harry from the room. They walked the corridors in silence with Snape's hand wrapped firmly around Harry's upper arm, until they reached the depths of the dungeons.

"You lied back there, Potter," Snape said suddenly, and Harry twitched feebly. "Don't think I did not notice. I will give you one chance to tell me why you were in that bathroom."

"I wanted to find Hermione," Harry insisted, and Snape snarled angrily.

"_Don't lie to me, boy,"_ he snapped. "You are not a brainless Gryffindor, as much as you try to act like one. I _will_ find out what made you leave the dungeons at such a time, don't think I won't."

"Yes, sir," Harry murmured, and stared straight ahead for the rest of the walk.

He couldn't tell him, simply couldn't – for who would believe him if he said he'd seen Nick's plight in his mind?

No one, that's who.

So Harry remained silent even as Snape shoved him roughly through the entrance. He wouldn't tell anyone.

Not ever.

* * *


	11. Gryffindor vs Slytherin

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**Chapter Eleven:** Gryffindor vs. Slytherin

* * *

As if the land around Hogwarts suddenly realized what time of year it was, the temperatures dropped drastically as November arrived, turning the lake into steely-grey, icy water and the mountains in the distance into menacing, snow-covered crags.

With the change of the weather, tension and excitement suddenly spiked in the student population.

Quidditch season had arrived.

The season's first game promised to be a fantastic one – the basically rookie Gryffindor team, full of strength and potential, against the seasoned, experienced, and ruthless Slytherins.

Entering the Great Hall early that Saturday morning, Harry tossed his brother a wide, challenging grin. Nick looked almost green, and Harry felt a mixture of glee and sympathy. He loved his brother dearly, but Harry wanted Slytherin to win.

In response to Harry's grin, Nick bared his teeth gamely back.

At ten-thirty Harry joined the river of black-robed students emerging from the castle, staying beside Zabini and Nott. By virtue of being small and quick, Harry managed to snag a set of three seats near the top of the Slytherin section of the stands, where they had an excellent view of the action.

There was a tingling sense of anticipation in the cold air as the Quidditch teams emerged from the changing rooms, brooms over their shoulders. The Slytherin team, to a player, were tall, broad-shouldered, and muscle-bound, even their Seeker. In contrast, the Gryffindor Captain was half their size and was still the tallest, broadest player on the Gryffindor team. Katie and Nick both looked absolutely tiny.

Hooch was refereeing. She called on the Captains to meet in the middle and shake hands, admonishing them to keep it fair, then called for them to mount up. There was a count to three, a whistle blow, and the two teams shot into the cold air.

"And they're off!" the commentator shouted. "Slytherin takes the Quaffle, Captain Marcus Flint shooting down the pitch, nearly bowls over Chaser Potter there and _bloody hell, what was that?_"

"Language, Mr. Jordan," McGonagall said over the voice magnifier, but she was barely heard over the gasps. Harry leapt to his feet, grinning.

Gryffindor had kept Nick a secret for a reason. As Flint had charged him, he'd neatly flipped backwards and to the side – and plucked the Quaffle lightly from his grasp without touching him at all.

"Gryffindor in possession!" Jordan was shouting, "courtesy of a _lightning_ fast snatch by Potter! What a move! He's darting up the pitch now, and passes – Johnson with the Quaffle now, and it's back to Potter, now Spinnet, and back to third year Johnson – _damn_, intercepted by Pucey, who's ripping back down the field with the Gryffindor Chasers out of range – dodges a Bludger from Weasley, shoots – _yes!_ blocked by Keeper Wood there, _excellent catch, Wood!_"

The students were shouting, cheering their favorites as Wood flung the Quaffle out to be neatly caught by Harry's brother, who spun on his tail and blazed across the field, crouched low on his broom. The Gryffindor Beaters tracked him, bouncing both Bludgers between them in an attempt to keep the opposing players away. Nick reached far field and slewed sideways with a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, who snuck it through the right-hand ring while Bletchley focused on Nick's decoy move.

"GRYFFINDOR SCORES!" Jordan shouted exuberantly. "Excellent play there by Potter and Spinnet, ten-zero Gryffindor! Now Slytherin's in possession, with Montague dodging both Weasleys, and that's Bole whacking a Bludger at Katie Bell, who neatly dodges…and Potter _again!_ Neatly snags the Quaffle right from Montague's grasp, passes to Spinnet, to Johnson, back to Spinnet, to Potter – _Potter scores!_ Twenty-zero Gryffindor!"

Harry laughed and groaned simultaneously. The Slytherins clearly had no idea what to do with these fast, agile Gryffindor players.

"Bletchley throws to Pucey, Pucey in possession, heading for the goals – _oh, oh_, Katie Bell's spotted the Snitch!"

Pucey dropped the Quaffle, looking over his shoulder at the speeding glimmer of gold.

"PUCEY!" Harry bellowed, but Pucey couldn't hear over the roar of the crowd. Harry groaned and resisted the urge to cover his eyes as nearly every single player stopped what they were doing to watch the diving Seekers.

Then Flint snaked his way up through the hovering players and collided with Katie, sending her spinning wildly off course. The Gryffindors, players and spectators alike, roared with rage.

"Foul!" they shouted, and Jordan was echoing them stridently as Hooch blew her whistle.

"And Spinnet takes the shot, she scores, thirty-zero Gryffindor but the Snitch is gone, of course," Jordan said glumly. "That's Slytherin for you, though…"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor, sorry. Gryffindor still in possession, and – bloody hell, what's wrong with Potter's broom?!"

Harry spun around to look for Nick, who was high above the playing field. Harry's heart leapt into his throat as Nick's beautiful new broom, the one he ordered special from the shop in Diagon Alley, twisted hard and flung itself through the air as if trying to buck him off. Harry stared at the ground, easily fifty feet below his brother, a distance that was growing with every subsequent buck and twist.

There was a _dinging_ sound that Harry heard dimly through the blood rushing in his ears – the sound of Slytherin scoring.

His breath caught in his chest, and sound was suddenly muted. Except for a voice, chanting quietly in the distance, sounding strangely harmonized and hypnotic. Harry turned his head slowly, feeling like he was moving through molasses, and managed to focus his eyes on the stands across from him, where Professor Quirrell was speaking softly to nothing, his eyes on Nick's plight.

There were gasps, suddenly overloud, as Nick swung completely off his broom and hung on desperately with one hand. The Gryffindor players were circling below him, hoping to catch him if he fell.

Feeling a sensation of calm purpose, Harry rose to his feet and turned away from the field to descend the stairs in the back. He leapt down them three at a time, because even though his emotions were oddly quiet he knew he did not have time to dither, for Quirrell was doing something to his brother's broom and Harry was the only one who would do anything about it.

In the Ravenclaw stands, Hermione Granger snatched a pair of binoculars from another Ravenclaw and trained them directly on the Slytherin stands. She caught a glimpse of a small dark-haired boy descending, but her focus remained on the tall man in green robes who stared unblinkingly at Nick, mouth moving silently.

She jumped to her feet with a gasp of alarm and fled the down the steps, heading to her right towards the Slytherin section.

By this time Harry had reached the lowest tier-level and set off with determined purpose around the perimeter towards the stands across the way, picking up a run when a short scream from behind him galvanized him on. At the top, in the upper Gryffindor section, there was a small box reserved for unbiased Professors, those who weren't Heads of House.

Quirrell was one of these Professors who, by the rules, could not take sides.

Harry started determinedly up the steps, resisting the urge to pull out his wand as he went. It would not help him here.

Hermione had reached the ground by then and was rushing towards the Slytherin section, her breath coming in painful gasps. She hit the entrance and raced up the steps, feeling sweat trickle down her spine.

Harry reached the top, and caught a glimpse of his brother being yanked to and fro by his wildly bucking broom. The sight firmed his resolve even harder, and Harry strode right up behind Quirrell and shoved him, hard, between the shoulder blades. Quirrell yelped in surprise and went head first into the row in front, and Harry shrank backwards and out of sight.

Hermione reached the top of the Slytherin stands then, and crouched behind Snape to set bluebell fire to his robes. It took just seconds for him to realize he was on fire, and a sudden snarl told her she had done her job. She scrambled away towards the stairs, praying that Snape would never know what had happened.

Up in the air, Nick clambered back onto his broom and caught a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye.

"Katie!" he shouted, pointing wildly, and she veered away and shot in that direction.

Nick's shout had caught Higgs attention too, who bowled over players without regard to House and fought his way free, then took off like an arrow – but Katie was small, and fast, and had too far of a head start. Harry watched from the shadows as the Snitch darted down towards the ground and Katie dove steeply, leveled out just ten feet from the ground, stretched out a hand, and plucked the Snitch from the air.

Amongst a mix of wild cheers and furious shouts, Harry turned and headed down the stairs, feeling a strange mix of relief at Nick's safety, and disappointment at Slytherin's loss.

* * *

"Quirrell is trying to kill my brother," Harry said furiously later that evening. He was in Snape's office, clutching the armrests of the chair he was sitting in.

"What did you see?" Snape asked intently.

"He was watching him, he wasn't blinking," Harry began feverishly. "He was muttering – but it wasn't Latin. It was strange sounding…"

"Celtic," Snape said. "Like all the jinxes in that subclass."

"Celtic then," Harry shrugged. "But he was _doing it_."

"And what did you do?"

"I shoved him into the stands," Harry said passionately. "I won't stand for someone trying to kill my brother. I _won't."_

"An admirable sentiment, I'm sure," Snape drawled, "but here is where your involvement ends. I thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Potter, but I will take care of Professor Quirrell. You are to stay strictly out of it, do you understand?"

"What if he tries again?" Harry growled.

"He won't," Snape said with certainty. "Tell your brother to stay away from Quirrell, and do the same yourself, but I will prevent any chance of this happening again. You're to _stay out of it,_ Harry, am I clear?"

Harry looked directly into Snape's eyes and said, "Crystal, Professor," while lying his head off.

* * *

"It was Snape," Hermione said waveringly. "He was jinxing your broom!"

Nick, Jon, Katie, and Hermione were huddled in the library, speaking in whispers.

"Why would he want to kill me?" Nick asked in bewilderment. "I haven't done anything."

"I don't know, but it was definitely him! We have to find out."

* * *

* * *


	12. The Clock Strikes Midnight

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**Chapter Twelve:** The Clock Strikes Midnight

* * *

As November progressed into December, the weather continued to grow colder. In the dungeons, Snape kept their dorms and common room at a comfortable temperature, but one step outside the sheltering spells and the icy dungeon air bit into their hands and faces.

Midway through December, Harry and the rest of the Slytherins emerged from the dungeons to see that the grounds had been covered in a blanket of snow and the lake had frozen solid. Overenthusiastic students took this as an opportunity for magical snow fights. Harry nearly fell over laughing when the Weasley twins enchanted several snowballs to follow Quirrell around and bounce off the back of his turban.

Cold seemed to permeate the entire castle aside from the Great Hall and the common rooms, but the worst was Professor Snape's class. For some reason he neglected to keep the classroom warm like he did the common room, and they were forced to huddle deeply into their winter cloaks and stand as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

"I do feel so sorry," Draco Malfoy said during one of these classes, "for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home."

He was looking right at Harry as he said it, but Harry didn't take offense. He wasn't not wanted at home – he had no home to go to at all, and in fact had leapt at the chance to sign his name to the roster Professor Snape had passed around the common room the day before.

But then that evening at dinner Snape descended to the Slytherin table with a long white paper envelope grasped in his hand, the kind of business envelope so common in the Muggle world. He handed it to Harry with a brusque explanation – every once in a while a Muggle who didn't know about the wizarding world would send a letter a witch or wizard at Hogwarts. These letters were addressed to a post office box in London, where they would be sent along by owl in bundles, to be distributed at the school.

Harry looked down at the envelope. His name was written on the front, as well as the relevant information. It was addressed to a London post office, and it was written in tight, cramped writing that was very familiar.

It was from Michael.

It read:

_Dear Harry,_

_How are you? I hope your term is going well so far, and you are enjoying yourself a lot. I apologize for the lack of letters so far – life is very busy right now. I hope you are enjoying yourself at your new school, and staying out of trouble._

_Moving on, however. Christmas is almost here! Have you thought a bit about what you would like?_

_Looking forward to your reply,_

_Michael_

Harry laughed shakily. He'd never thought…and the act itself was serving to undo him. He'd thought he'd outgrown that desire to have a parental figure, but apparently not. Carefully, he folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope to reply to later.

The Great Hall was in the midst of being decorated, and it was going to be truly spectacular. Harry counted eleven – soon to be twelve – enormous trees around the Hall, all in various stages of decoration completion. They were draped with holly, tiny, non-melting icicles, and hundreds of real, twinkling fairies. Fascinated, Harry watched the miniscule fairies dart around on their assigned trees, chattering quietly at each other in their tiny musical voices.

After the students left on the train to London, Harry suddenly had the Slytherin first year dormitory to himself, and shared the common room with only a small handful of older students. He spent much of his time before Christmas in the library or with his brother, and once went to Professor Snape to give him a letter to send to Michael. He hadn't written much, just a mild thanks-for-the-letter and that he was enjoying school and didn't know what he wanted for Christmas, and a brusque but genuine enquiry after Michael's health.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, Harry joined Nick and the Weasley twins for an impromptu Snow War, which they made as elaborate as possible.

"All right, so brothers against brothers, yes?" Fred(Harry thought it was Fred, but he couldn't be sure) asked excitedly.

"Yes," Nick replied.

"All right, let's do this!" George yelled, and crouched down to scoop up a pile of snow and hurl it at Harry, but he was too late because Harry was already bounding through the snow with Nick on his heels.

"We need a fortress!" Nick said enthusiastically.

"A great big wall!" Harry rejoined, caught up in the excitement.

"All right, let's push a bunch of snow up to a hill – look, I have this nifty Sweeping Charm that Hermione Granger taught me – "

"Whoa!" Harry said, scrambling out of the way as the snow around them swept itself into a neat pile.

"Now packing spells!" Nick cried, and packed the snow down hard with another charm, then the two boys proceeded to shape the snow by hand until they had a serviceably thick wall of snow that reached over their heads.

"Snowballs," Harry said, and started scooping up handfuls of snow. Then there was a whistling noise and a barrage of snowballs came from the other team and collapsed their wall into a pile of broken snow chunks. Harry and Nick yelped in outrage, then leapt to their feet and charged as one.

Harry caught a quick glimpse of Fred or George's startled expression before he was on him, scooping up snow and dumping it down the other boy's shirt. Nick was flinging snow as fast as he could onto the other twin's face and hair and down the front of his shirt, until they were both shouting in protest and wriggling around to get the snow out.

Within moments they were all soaking wet and laughing too hard to breathe.

Harry went to bed that night exhausted and cheerful, expecting a present from his brother but no one else. That was why he was so surprised the next morning to wake up to a substantial pile of presents at the foot of his bed. Scrambling to sit up, Harry stared for a long moment, mouth open.

Then he tentatively reached for the first one, and searched for the tag. It was long and flat and it was from Michael.

Blinking, Harry tore off the shiny Muggle wrapper to reveal a fine pad of expensive drawing paper and a set of charcoal pieces. It took Harry back in a flash to his tenth birthday, when Michael had taken him from the Williamsons and he'd had to leave his birthday present – a drawing pad and coloured pencils – behind.

Harry fingered the paper lightly, feeling a little subdued, then set the paper and charcoal pieces carefully to the side.

The next package was lumpy and strangely shaped and rather clumsily wrapped. The tag said it was _For Harry, from your friend, Hermione_.

Blinking in surprise at that, Harry remembered that he'd told everyone he'd gone to the girls' toilet to find Hermione, to warn her about the troll. That might warrant a Christmas present, Harry mused as he tore open the wrapper, if it had been true. Harry felt a tiny twinge of guilt for a moment before it faded. He mentally shrugged.

Hermione's present was a package of Muggle candy. Harry's eyes widened slightly, for although Muggle chocolate didn't have anything on wizarding chocolate, Harry had missed boiled sweets quite badly.

The third gift was from Nick – a fine silver cloak pin, shaped into a snake with emeralds for eyes. Harry laughed at the gift – it was so Slytherin as to be un-Slytherin, and Nick was so very Gryffindor for buying it for him. Cradling the pin gently in his hand, Harry knew he'd wear it, and treasure it, for as long as it lasted, despite the inevitable mocking it would get him from others in his House.

There were just two presents left – one was from Zabini, an envelope with a gift coin to _Quality Quidditch Supplies_, and one more unmarked gift with no tag.

It was so light as to be almost weightless, and very soft. Gently pulling open the wrapping, Harry drew out a wad of silvery cloth. It was very strange, like material made from water, and when Harry drew his hand away he almost thought it should have been wet.

But it wasn't. It was perfectly dry.

Harry stood up and shook the cloth out, and it billowed out in the form of a long, hooded cloak. It was kind of a strange colour, Harry thought with a twist of his lips. Did anyone really expect him to wear a silver cloak?

Regardless, Harry swung the cloak over his shoulders and stepped over to the mirror to see how it looked.

He froze, for he was just a head floating in mid-air.

He yanked the cloak off and threw it away from him to the corner of the room, where it fluttered down to the floor in a puddle of silvery fabric. Halfway there, a square piece of parchment drifted away from the folds and twirled to the floor.

Harry moved over and picked it up curiously.

_Your father left this in my possession before he died, _it read. _It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. A Very Merry Christmas to you._

It was unsigned.

Harry looked over at the strange cloak again, contemplating. If the letter was to be believed, then it had been Harry's _father's._

Harry went over and picked it up, running his fingers over it. After a moment of consideration, he swung it over his shoulders again. This time he was expecting it, so he wasn't startled by the abrupt disappearance of his body.

He flipped the hood over his head and watched his reflection vanish completely, and after a moment a satisfied feeling welled up in his chest. This could be _fun._

* * *

"Happy Christmas, Harry!" Nick called when Harry arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast. Harry smiled and waved back.

"Happy Christmas, Nicolas," he replied when he sat down beside his brother. "Thank you for the pin, I love it."

Sure enough, Harry had used the cloak pin to fasten his winter cloak, and the bright silver sparkled gently in the glow of the twelve trees. Nick flushed with pleasure.

"I'm glad you like it," he said, remarkably shy. "Thanks for the broom kit, it's fantastic."

"Thought you might like that," Harry said offhandedly. "Quidditch fiend, and all."

"Don't start," Nick warned playfully. "You're well on your way, after all."

"I don't deny it," Harry laughed. "What else did you get?"

"Candy from Hermione, a tissue from the family, a book on Quidditch from Jon, a pair of gloves from Katie, a snow globe from Leanne and a strategy book from Victoria. You?"

"Zabini got me a gift coin to Quality Quidditch, I got a drawing pad and pencils from my social worker Michael, candy from Hermione, and a cloak."

"A cloak?" Nicked asked curiously, and Harry nodded.

"It's really neat," he explained. "I'll show it to you later, after breakfast."

Something in Harry's voice warned his brother not to carry on the conversation here, and he looked painfully curious but nodded all the same.

After breakfast Harry darted down to the common room after telling Nick he'd meet up with him in the library. He carefully folded the thin, silvery cloak and placed it into his book bag, then hurried to the library.

"All right," he said, slightly out of breath from his hurry. "Come on, let's find somewhere private…"

They found an empty, unused classroom on the fourth floor. Harry closed the door and turned to grin at his brother as he pulled the cloak from his bag, shook it out, and swung it over his shoulders. As he flipped the hood over his head, he watched his brother's jaw drop in abject surprise.

"_Whoa,"_ Nick gasped. "Harry, where'd you go?"

"I'm here," Harry said reassuringly. "It's a cloak that makes you invisible. Look, here's the note…"

"Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well," Nick read out loud. "This was dad's?"

"So it says," Harry said, pushing the hood back down so his brother could see him. "I wonder why they gave it to me?"

"Dunno," Nick shrugged.

"You can use it, if you need to," Harry said generously.

"Thanks," Nick said, looking brighter.

For much of the afternoon Harry and Nick wandered the castle – sans the silver cloak – discussing everything they could think of. They explored secret passageways and empty classrooms until, covered in dust, they returned to the Great Hall for the highly anticipated Christmas feast.

Harry had never seen so much food in his life, and that included the Halloween and Welcoming feasts. A dozen golden brown, gently sizzling turkeys were spaced across the single table, surrounded by tureens of fresh vegetables, platters of buttered potatoes, boats of rich, thick gravy, enormous hams and plates piled high with slices of roast, and wizard party crackers placed every few feet.

Harry and Nick both ate too much of the perfectly cooked turkey, and Harry went away from the table with a brand new chess set, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, a pair of one-size-fits-all wool socks, and a package of black licorice. Nick's stash included a tall admiral's hat, several white mice, a pair of silver cufflinks, and a package of cream-filled chocolate cauldrons.

Too full for anything strenuous, the two brothers wandered back up to the library for the remainder of the evening, where they both chose a book on Quidditch to read quietly until, both yawning, they said goodnight and Happy Christmas to each other and headed their separate ways to bed.

Harry climbed into his heavenly warm four-poster and drifted away immediately.

He woke in the early morning hours because of dark, restless dreams. His legs ached painfully as though he'd been walking for too long, or growing too fast, and his heart pounded strangely, almost as if he'd been startled. Kicking off his blankets, Harry got up and tapped a candle with his wand. The Ever-Ready candle flickered to life and Harry picked it up to cradle it restlessly in his hands.

His eyes flicked over to his trunk, where the silver cloak resided, folded safely at the bottom. The desire to use it grew rapidly out of control, and before Harry realized what he was doing he was going to his trunk and pulling it out. At the door, he swung it around his shoulders, then snuffed out the candle and slipped out into the corridor.

He wandered the castle in the vague direction of the library, thinking that this was an excellent time to explore the restricted section, something he'd been very keen to do ever since he'd been told it was off limits without a specific purpose and a note from a professor.

In the restricted section, there was the sound of very, very faint whispers. The sound sent an icy chill down Harry spine, freezing him in his tracks and his breath in his lungs.

For an endless, terror-ridden moment, Harry listened to the voices whispering.

Then, with a slow-coming realization, he looked at the books.

The books were _speaking_.

Entranced, Harry took a slow step forward, and then another, slowly reaching out a hand. In the dim light of a distant, softly-glowing torch, Harry's hand looked pale yellow as he pressed two fingertips to the thick spine of one trembling book.

When nothing happened, Harry grasped it gently and withdrew it from the shelf. The movement seemed to disturb the other books, and with a strange rustle their whispers became more intense. Holding his breath in preparation of something violent, Harry cracked open the book to the first page.

He was right to be prepared, although nothing could truly have prepared him. The book screamed; a bloodcurdling, full-throated shriek of fury and hate. Harry flung the book away from him, turned, and bolted, fleeing the library and the screaming book behind him. He kept running, up and down staircases, down corridors, through tapestries until he was out of breath and his heart pounded so hard he thought it was going to jerk right out of his chest. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.

When he staggered to a halt, he was surrounded by portraits and suits of armour that were completely unfamiliar. He looked around, trying to orient himself – but it was no good.

He was lost.

Trembling from a mixture of overexertion and adrenaline, Harry leaned against the icy stone walls of the corridor and slid down to the floor, resting his head on the wall and giving his heart a chance to slow. When he felt sufficiently recovered enough to stand, he covered himself securely with the cloak and set off the way he had come, peeking into open doors as he went.

Then there was a voice, soft and indistinct with vaguely oily overtones. Filch, murmuring softly to someone. Harry was sure he was only talking to his cat, but then someone else replied, deeper and more distinct, with a lack of toothless slurring.

Harry felt the blood drain out of his face as he turned, dreading the sight behind him. Filch and Harry's Head of House were just coming around the corner. Harry looked around wildly for an escape, and spotted a slightly open door a bit down the corridor, in the direction that Filch and Snape were coming from. On silent rubber soles, Harry ran as quietly as possible to the door, tugged the silver cloak around him tightly, held his breath, and squeezed into the open room just as Filch and Snape drew level with him.

Trembling again, Harry leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, so it was several seconds before he spotted the mirror.

It was as tall as the ceiling and looked terribly out of place in the unused classroom Harry had stumbled upon. In the dimness of the dusty room the ornate golden frame gleamed softly, undimmed by dust or grime. The mirror stood on two clawed feet with an inscription carved in the gold on the top of the frame: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._

Latin, possibly? Harry wasn't sure, having never taken latin lessons before. But then, the _oyt_ looked bizarrely out of place, even to Harry, who freely admitted to almost no knowledge about Latin.

Curious, Harry stepped up to the mirror to have a closer look, glancing in it briefly.

He froze and had to strangle a scream in his mouth, and whipped around with his heart beating even harder than when the book had screamed – for he was surrounded on all sides by people.

Except he wasn't. There was no one behind him.

Swallowing hard, Harry turned back to the mirror. There were at least ten people there – except…

"Nick?" Harry whispered, inching forward. "Nick, what…?"

Harry tried to still his trembling hands by pressing them hard onto the surface of the mirror. In its depths, Nick smiled at him, the expression stretching the scar across his eye on a face so similar to Harry's own.

Harry didn't understand. Was his brother inside the mirror? But Nick didn't look distressed in any way – on the contrary, when Nick looked up at the people standing beside him, his face looked intensely happy.

Harry looked up at their faces, at a man and a woman. Harry reached out behind him and felt only empty air, despite the fact that in the mirror, she stood just behind Harry's reflection.

She was beautiful, Harry noted, with dark red hair, and her eyes…just like Harry's own.

"Mum?"Harry whispered, and his voice broke. _"Mum."_

She smiled at him, tears falling from her green, green eyes. Harry pressed against the mirror's surface as if he could fall through to them.

In the mirror, Nick leaned against the man's side, and brought Harry's attention to him. He was very tall, with broad shoulders and round glasses, like Nick's. His facial structure was so similar to both boys as to be one of them in ten years, and his hair was black and messy. It stuck up all over the place, just like Harry's did.

"_Dad,"_ Harry choked, and his father smiled blindingly.

Harry looked and looked, and the reflections didn't fade. There were people with eyes like his, and hair like his, and noses like his. For the first time in his life, Harry was looking at his family, his entire family, reunited within the mirror.

He could have stayed there for ever if a distant sound hadn't startled him. He tore his gaze from his mother's face and whispered, "I'll be back."

He didn't dare look back as he hurried away, for fear he wouldn't be able to leave at all.

By morning, Harry's stomach was in knots, and he got to the Great Hall before Nick did. That in itself was a rarity – Nick was an early riser, product of his relatives' treatment.

By the time Nick arrived, Harry was a fidgeting wreck, unable to eat or concentrate on anything. Before Nick was able to sit, Harry had leapt up, grabbed him by the wrist, and hauled him out of the hall.

"I want to show you something," Harry explained in a rush. "Come on, come with me."

"What the hell…?" Nick asked, bemused. "All right, I'm coming Harry."

"This way," Harry said, and led Nick on a winding path made of guesswork and half-remembered landmarks, often backtracking to take another path. Nick started to become impatient.

"What are we doing, Harry?" he asked irritably.

"Just wait, it's here, I know it is – just – _there!"_ It was a familiar-looking suit of armour, and just past it… "Yes, here, look."

He pushed open the door and sure enough, there was the mirror.

"What is it?" Nick asked curiously, and Harry pulled him over to the mirror.

"Go ahead, look inside," Harry said eagerly, and pushed Nick to stand before it. He knew when Nick had seen because his brother's face went a stark, bloodless white and his mouth dropped open in shock.

"Is that…?" he began weakly.

"Yes," Harry said breathlessly. "It's our parents."

"Mum?" Nick whispered, stepping closer to the mirror. "Dad?"

There was no audible reply, but Harry knew that their parents were smiling at them. Smiling and waving.

"You're in the mirror, Harry," Nick whispered, reaching out a hand to touch the surface. His other hand reached out to the side and clung to Harry's elbow. Without thinking about it, Harry shuffled in until his side pressed up against his brother, a position that allowed them to both look inside. Their parents smiled at them, and Harry felt that terrible aching he'd felt the night before, part joy, part terrible grief. In the mirror, their parents waved and smiled and cried.

* * *

The two boys tore themselves away for dinner, but returned late that night. They were both in such a hurry to get to the mirror that they forgot to pay attention to their surroundings, and so as they were scrunching themselves together to sit in front of the mirror, a voice spoke up from behind them, startling them into springing apart.

"So…back again, boys?"

Harry whirled around.

"Professor Dumbledore!" he breathed, heart pounding in surprise.

"We didn't see you there, sir," Nick said, clambering to his feet.

"No, no, sit," Dumbledore said, and slipped off the desk to sit on the floor beside them. "So you have both discovered the secrets of the Mirror of Erised."

"The Mirror of Erised?" Harry repeated.

"That's what it's called?" Nick asked curiously. "What does it mean?"

"Why, it means exactly what it shows you," Professor Dumbledore said, smiling.

"It shows us our parents," Harry said, scooting closer to Dumbledore.

"Yes, and it shows a child desperate for recognition in a position of great power, and an old man longing for normality a simple pair of socks. And a person who has everything they could ever want, and want for nothing…they see themselves exactly as they are. Do you understand?"

"It shows us what we want," Harry murmured glumly.

"Whatever we want," Nick echoed.

"Close. It shows us nothing more and nothing less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts."

"Like our family," Nick said hollowly.

"Exactly. However, it can be dangerous. Men have wasted away before it, driven mad by what they see, not sure if it's real or even possible."

Harry looked at his brother beside him, and Nick looked back with eyes large and dark in his pale face.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, boys," Dumbledore said softly. "And I ask that you not go looking for it again. If you ever _do_ stumble across it, however – you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, and Nick echoed him.

"Now," Dumbledore said, getting lightly to his feet. "Why don't you cover yourselves with that fine cloak and run off back to bed?"

"Sir," Harry started, getting to his feet. "Do you know who sent me the cloak?"

"Your father left it in my possession," Dumbledore replied, smiling. "I had a hard time deciding who to trust it with – it was actually given to me to give to you, Nicolas, when your mother was still carrying you. Before Harry was even an inkling. Nonetheless, I feel in my heart that Harry will need it most, and I knew you would not begrudge him that, Nicolas."

"No sir," Nick said solemnly.

"Off to bed," Dumbledore whispered, and Harry swung the cloak over their heads and they squeezed awkwardly through the door without another word.

* * *

* * *


	13. Puzzle Piece

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen:** Puzzle Piece

* * *

Dumbledore's warnings had done as he'd wished, and neither Harry nor Nick went looking for the Mirror again. For the rest of the winter holidays, Harry entertained himself by playing with his brother and his friends. He even played a game of chess with a begrudging Ron Weasley and lost spectacularly.

Then, the night before the rest of the students returned, he dreamed of the three headed dog on the third floor. In his dream, he caught a flash of reflected flame in the blood-red surface of a ruby-like stone, and the vision startled him awake.

Unable to sleep for the remainder of the night, Harry huddled unhappily by the fire in the common room, and when the sun finally rose he forcibly put the somewhat disturbing images out of his mind and went up to breakfast early.

After term began, Nick was kept busy with Quidditch training, and it seemed like he was out on the pitch every spare moment Wood could get reserved.

The reason for this was the fast approaching Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff game, and the fact that Snape had insisted on taking Hooch's place as referee.

* * *

The morning of the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff match dawned overcast and cold. As usual, Harry made it a point to be up early to sit with Nick, although he persisted in heckling him quietly. Harry knew that if Gryffindor won this match they'd overtake Harry's own House in the points standings, and Harry was nothing if not a Slytherin.

By eleven-o-clock he was in the stands, dressed blatantly in favor of Hufflepuff with a black-and-yellow scarf. When the teams arrived, the Gryffindor team sent him rude hand gestures, which Harry gamely sent back twofold and with gruesome expressions as a supplement.

The game started with Gryffindor in possession, as Angelina Johnson grabbed the Quaffle.

"And they're off! Gryffindor in possession with Johnson flying like an eagle, she passes to Potter, who ducks Rogers, who's swinging a Beater's bat at his head – Potter drops the Quaffle, to be picked up by Cadwallader…"

Harry kept half an eye on the game and the other half on Quirrell, who was sitting docilely in the stands across from the Slytherin section, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Harry glanced back up at the game in time to see one of the Weasley twins whack a Bludger hard in Snape's direction. Snape neatly spun out of the way and raised his whistle to his lips.

"Foul called," Jordan said uncertainly. "For Hufflepuff. Cadwallader puts it away, ten-zero Hufflepuff, with Hufflepuff in possession."

Above the game, the Seekers flew like hawks, looking this way and that for the Snitch. Below them, Snape blew his whistle again for no apparent reason.

"Twenty-zero, Hufflepuff," Jordan said, getting angry. "Why, that – "

"AHEM!"

"Sorry, Professor. Hufflepuff in possession as they charge down the field, Quaffle intercepted by Potter's signature move – _go Potter!_ He's really tearing down the field now, setting it up, he shoots – _damn_, blocked by the Hufflepuff Keeper. Good try, Nick – and Bell's diving! The Gryffindor Seeker is moving now, drops through the Chaser huddle – she's heading towards Snape, what's she doing…?"

Katie shot by Snape just an inch in front of his nose – the Professor rocked backwards in startled surprise, and Katie pulled out of her dive with the Snitch fluttering helplessly in her fist.

"GRYFFINDOR WINS!" Jordan shouted. "Hundred-fifty to twenty, Gryffindor! They're in the lead now!"

The Gryffindors roared with triumph, and Harry grabbed his hair in mixed exhilaration and frustration.

Afterwards, Harry waited outside the Gryffindor changing rooms for his brother to emerge, hoping to give him a quick slap on the back before he was called back to work on strategies with Flint in the common room. Wave after wave of scarlet-clad supporters passed, shouting congratulations through the changing room doors until at last they exhausted themselves and wandered back to the castle. Minutes later, Oliver Wood and all three girls came out. Harry merited a cordial nod from Wood and smiles from the girls, and when the two third year Weasley Beaters came after, merited a pair of hands ruffling his hair.

Then, at last, Nick emerged, still clutching his broom in his hands and with his dark red hair still dripping water.

"Nicely done, Nicolas," Harry said cheerfully, slapping his brother's shoulder.

"Thanks, Harry," Nick replied, smiling. "I kept thinking, you know, before the game…just a fluke, last time…"

"Never," Harry said, laughing. "You fly a broom like you're born to."

"Yeah," Nick chuckled. "Feels like it, when I'm up there."

"I know what you mean," Harry said bracingly. "You just wait – I'll be up there next year, when Higgs is gone."

"That'll be fun," Nick said, slinging an arm over Harry's shoulders. "You know, I wouldn't mind losing…every once in a while, if it was losing to you."

"Every once in a while!" Harry said, mock indignantly. "Try always! Ha!"

"You little brat," Nick said, lunging for him half-heartedly. Harry danced backwards, laughing tauntingly. Then Nick spotted something over Harry's shoulder and froze in surprise.

"It's Snape," he said dumbly, and Harry turned to look. Sure enough, a long-legged and prowling figure was coming down the front steps to the castle, striding across the lawn with his gaze focused into the distance. "C'mon," Nick whispered, leveling his broom and swinging a leg over it. Harry blinked and shrugged, getting on behind his brother. Snape was hurrying as fast as his legs would take him towards the Forbidden Forest. "Be very quiet, Harry," Nick breathed over his shoulder, and Harry nodded silently, his chin on his brother's shoulder. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Nick kicked off from the ground.

The two boys glided soundlessly over the castle, staying back and out of sight, watching as Snape entered the forest at a lope. Nick turned his head and looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

"What's Snape doing in the Forest when everyone's at dinner?" he asked quietly, and Harry shook his head in bewilderment. Now over the trees, Nick circled the broom lower and lower until he heard indistinct murmurs, and the pair of them alighted soundlessly on the thick limb of an ancient tree.

Below them, Snape had Quirrell's robes clenched in his fists aggressively, and Quirrell was stuttering worse than ever, so badly they could hardly make out what he was trying to say. Viciously, Snape cut him off.

"Have you managed to fool someone into telling you how to get past that beast of Hagrid's, yet?" Snape snarled, and shoved him away. Quirrell almost fell. Snape's voice grew louder and clearer, and angrier.

"You nearly killed that boy!" Snape almost screamed, and Quirrell huddled on the ground. "You aren't fooling me, Quirrell," Snape continued. "I'm watching you. You think it went unnoticed, your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'll be waiting."

Quirrell started stuttering again, but Snape cut him off.

"Very well. We'll have another little chat, very soon."

With that, Snape whirled on his heel and stalked away, robes billowing behind him, and Quirrell staggered to his feet and stared after him, silent and still.

As quietly as they could, Harry and Nick remounted Nick's broom and lifted away.

"What was that about?" Nick wondered when they were back at the broom shed, dropping off Nick's broom. Harry stuck his head out of the shed to make sure it was clear before beckoning to his brother.

"Quirrell was jinxing you during the Slytherin/Gryffindor before Christmas," Harry explained as they made for the castle. "Remember? You told me you knew you'd been jinxed."

"That was Snape!" Nick said, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Hermione Granger saw him chanting at me, not taking his eyes off me. My broom stopped trying to buck me off after she set fire to him."

"That was _Hermione?_" Harry said, and laughed out loud. "Goodness, I would never have thought. He came back with scorched robes and none of us dared to ask him what happened." Harry laughed again. _"Hermione._ Wow."

"Yeah," Nick said. "She caught him jinxing my broom."

"Well that's funny," Harry said musingly, "because I remember things quite differently. I remember _Quirrell_ jinxing you, and me shoving him down the stands to make him stop. Your broom stopped trying to buck you off right after that."

"Er," Nick said intelligently, and Harry cuffed him lightly on the head.

"Clearly, one of them was issuing the counter jinx, and if that was the case, the conversation we just heard starts to make a bizarre kind of sense, doesn't it?

"I suppose," Nick said reluctantly. "Bloody hell though, I really hate Snape."

"He's a little frightening," Harry said, nodding, "but he's done a lot for me. I think he just doesn't like Gryffindors. Probably they weren't nice to him when he was in school."

"I suppose," Nick said again. "I still hate him, though."

"Yes well, I seriously dislike Draco Malfoy," Harry said, shrugging. "That doesn't mean I think he's trying to do you in."

"All right, all right," Nick grumbled. "I'll keep an eye on Quirrell."

"And please keep me in the know, will you?" Harry implored, and Nick nodded his head without hesitation.

"As soon as I know anything," he promised as he shoved open the door to the castle. They peered cautiously inside, but the Entrance Hall was empty.

"Okay," Harry whispered, squeezing in. "All clear. Come on."

"What are you doing now?"

"Flint was taking notes the whole game," Harry said, grinning wickedly. "I'm sure I'm terribly late for the Slytherin team strategy meeting, but it was worth it. Gotta run, though. See you later!"

"Bye, Harry!" Nick called, and hurried up the marble staircase towards Gryffindor tower. Harry jumped down the stairway that led to the dungeons, and almost collided with Flint at the bottom. Only a sharp twist of his body saved him from being knocked out on Flint's chest.

"Potter!" Flint said, nearly spitting he was so angry. "Where have you _been?!_"

"Sorry, Flint!" Harry babbled, looking up at his team Captain with a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Sorry, won't happen again!"

"Get back to the common room!" Flint spat, herding Harry along the dark corridor. "You'll be dodging double Bludgers next practice, for this!"

Harry felt his mouth stretch wide in a wicked, laughing grin.

* * *

"Guys," Nick said breathlessly as he all but fell through the portrait hole. "Guys, guess what?"

"Where have you _been?_" Hermione demanded, hands on her hips. Nick spared a moment wondering why she was in the Gryffindor Common Room when she was a Ravenclaw, but the thought was chased right out of his head before he thought to ask.

"You won!" Jon said gleefully, pounding Nick on his already abused back.

"Never mind that," Nick said, tugging insistently on Jon's sleeves. "Just wait until you hear this…come on, let's go find somewhere quiet."

Lifting his head, Nick waved madly to Katie, who stared at him with a furrowed brow. Something in his face must have alerted her to something amiss, for she rose to her feet and left her group of friends to step up to him. Nick tugged on her sleeve impatiently, gesturing at the portrait hole, then pulled Jon, Hermione, and Katie out into the corridor and down to an empty classroom, where he shut the door firmly. He then proceeded to tell them everything he and Harry had heard down in the Forest.

"And Harry thinks one of them was spelling a counter-curse, and he thinks it was Snape," he finished, out of breath.

"So Harry thinks Quirrell was jinxing you?" Hermione asked uncertainly. "But why?"

"I don't know yet," Nick said, shaking his head. "But I know how we can find out. And we need to get Harry's help – he can keep an eye on Snape _and _Quirrell when we can't. Come on, let's go to the library."

"We should write down everything we know," Hermione nodded, struggling with the heavy oak door. Jon helped, heaving against it to open it. All four students slipped out and shoved the door closed again, and Hermione led the way towards the library, where they would put their heads together and figure out what was going on.

* * *


	14. Teamwork

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Fourteen:** Teamwork

* * *

"Check," Harry said smugly, and Zabini scowled fiercely at the board.

"How did you do that?" he grumbled. Harry gave a wicked grin and didn't answer. After several long moments, Zabini blew out a long breath, reached out, and knocked over his king.

"Ha!" Harry said triumphantly. "I win!"

"Yeah," Zabini glared, then sat back and crossed his arms. "Now, how did you do it?"

"Like I'd tell you," Harry retorted. "You never tell me how you beat me."

"That's because I beat you through sheer incompetence on your part," Zabini said vaguely, taking a closer look at the board.

"Potter!" one of the prefects shouted, and Harry looked up in surprise. The prefect beckoned.

"I have to go," Harry said to his friend, indicating the scowling prefect. Zabini nodded absently, still examining the board. Sighing, Harry got to his feet and made his way through the Common Room, threading his way between kissing couples and intent study groups.

"Your brother," the prefect said, looking disgusted. Harry brightened and shouldered open the wall. Outside, leaning against the stone wall, was Nick.

"Harry!"

"Hi," Harry grinned. "What are you doing here? I didn't even know you could come down here!"

"I can if I have family," Nick shrugged. "'M not allowed to bring anyone else, though."

"So I can go up to Gryffindor, if I want?"

"Sure," Nick replied. "But never mind that now. Me, Jon, Katie, and Hermione have been working on something we wanted to show you. Come up to the library with me, all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, falling into step with his older brother. "Is this about…?"

"Yeah."

"Oh," Harry said, nodding.

It took about ten minutes to reach the library, and Hermione, Katie, and Jon were waiting for them.

"What are we doing?" Harry asked, whispering. He sat down beside Hermione, who had a piece of parchment in front of her.

"We don't have a lot," Hermione whispered back, "but we just _know_ something's going on. I mean, someone tried to kill Nick!"

"What _do_ you have?"

"Well…just that," Jon said reluctantly from where he sat across the table. Harry glanced at Nick, who was blushing.

"Well," Harry began, "we should first try to decide who would want to hurt Nick."

"One of Voldemort's followers," Nick replied instantly, and Jon winced slightly at the name.

"All right. Also, have any of you seen what's in the corridor on the third floor?"

"No," Jon said, and the other three shook their heads.

"It might be relevant, somehow," Harry whispered, cleaning closer. "It's a three-headed dog, and it's standing on a trap door."

"It's guarding something!" Hermione gasped, and Harry grinned at her conspiratorially and nodded. "Maybe whoever tried to hurt Nick wants it?" she continued, and Harry shrugged.

"Who knows? We need to find out what its guarding."

"There is _no way_ I'm doing down that trap door," Katie hissed in a loud whisper, and Harry shook his head.

"That's not what I mean," Harry said quietly. "Remember when we were eavesdropping, Nick, and Snape asked Quirrell if he'd figured out how to get past _that beast of Hagrid's, yet?_

"Yes."

"That rather implies that Hagrid knows what his _beast_ is guarding, right?"

"Do you think we can get him to tell us?" Katie asked curiously.

"We can try," Harry replied.

* * *

Hermione knew Hagrid best of the four of them, having visited him often during the year. Harry thought he stood the best chance of wrangling the answer out of him without raising any suspicions, so the plan was that Hermione would take Harry down to Hagrid's hut to _introduce_ her new friend.

It was the best plan they could think up.

So it was this icy January day that the two first years bundled up in their thickest, warmest clothes and hurried down to Hagrid's hut. Hermione knocked, the thud muffled by her thick woolen mittens, and immediately several loud, ferocious barks sounded. Harry started in alarm.

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione said bracingly. "It's just Hagrid's boarhound, Fang."

"Hagrid has a dog?" Harry asked contemplatively, but Hermione didn't have time to answer as the front door swung open abruptly.

"Why, Hermione!" Hagrid said in pleased surprise, leaning back against the exuberant leaps his enormous boarhound was performing. Drool flew everywhere, and Harry took an involuntary step back in surprised dismay. He was going to have to pretend to like _that?_

"Hi Hagrid!" Hermione said, looking honestly happy to be there.

"Come in, come in!" Hagrid said. "And Harry, good ter see yeh! Back, Fang!"

"Hi Hagrid," Harry said cheerfully, thinking he might as well get on with it. "Is that your dog? Wow! He's really big!"

"That 'e is," Hagrid chuckled, beckoning them to a gigantic table set in the middle of the one-room hut. "Now, don' be 'fraid of Fang 'ere, he's a right ninny 'e is."

"I'm not afraid," Harry said guilelessly. "I love dogs! The orphanage had one, for a while. He loved to play fetch with a stick." _Friendly and childlike, Harry, that's the key…_

"Well now, is that righ'? I'm sure Fang would love to play some fetch with you, if'n you wanted to, that is."

"Oh yes," Harry said brightly. "I'd love to!" Kneeling, Harry reached out and scratched the dog behind his ears, trying to ignore the copious amount of drool being deposited on the knee of his robes. "Hiya Fang," he said blithely. "Would you like to come play with me, some time?"

"'Ere yeh go, Hermione," Hagrid said from above Harry's head, and Harry looked up to see Hagrid depositing several large mugs and an enormous tea kettle on the table. Relieved by the responsibilities of polite decorum, Harry stood and wiped off his drool-covered hand before sitting down on one of the giant chairs and accepting a mug of tea and a plate full of what looked like rock cakes.

Beside him, Hermione looked a little bit flustered and confused, and kept glancing at Harry periodically. Harry gave her an impatient look and a tiny nod towards Hagrid, and Hermione, brilliant Hermione, caught the hint at once.

"So, Hagrid," she said, her voice a little shrill but steady enough despite that. "I, er, saw a book in the library today that mentioned a magical creature called the Hippocampus…"

"Ah," Hagrid said, looking delighted. "I'd love to have one o' them, I would! Let's see, a Hippocampus is like a cross between a horse and a fish, see, 'cept the horse halves are very fishlike also, like seahorses, see? Don' have fur and such, and sorta finlike hooves."

"How do they swim?" Hermione asked, expression rapt despite the fact that Harry knew she would have read about this all before. He found himself feeling vaguely impressed.

"Well now, like yeh would expect, I expect," Hagrid said. "Take horses, now – not particular graceful swimmers now, are they? They paddle, doglike. So you take a horse and you put a fish tail on it and you get a magical animal that swims awkward-like. Don' know how they swim at all, really, 'cept them being magical an' all."

Harry took the opportunity at once, widening his eyes with innocent delight.

"Are there fish dogs out there somewhere, Hagrid?" Harry asked, and forced a frown when Hagrid shook his head indulgently.

"Not yet at least," Hagrid amended, seeing Harry's expression. "Things like Hippocampi and Hippogriffs, they're not natural see. Wizard bred creatures. Don' see why there won' be a dog cross one o' these days."

"Are there any magical dogs, Hagrid?" Harry asked plaintively.

"Oh, plenty!" Hagrid said delightedly. "Oh, let's see, there's the crup o' course – like a Muggle Jack Russell Terrier but with a forked tail. Very loyal, crups. An' the Ministry 'as a 'alf dozen albino bloodhounds to chase Nogtails off properties…and then there's my favorite, the three-headed dog."

Harry gasped out loud, Hermione echoing him half a beat late.

"_No,"_ Harry said. "You must be joking. A three headed dog?"

"Aye," Hagrid said, chuckling. "I give you my word they exist."

"Have you ever _seen_ one?" Harry asked, forcing his tone to dip doubtfully.

"Why, I 'ave one!" Hagrid said, grinning.

"Don't be silly," Harry scoffed. "I haven't seen it! What's its name?"

"Well, 'is name is Fluffy, and he stays in the castle." Harry gaped at that.

"Why does he stay in the castle? Don't you take him on walks and stuff?"

"Ach, he's just guarding the Stone is all, 'e is quite happy actually, see, all teh Professors an' me toss him playthings and treats all the time."

"Wow, a real three-headed guard dog, Hermione!" Harry exclaimed without missing a beat. "Can you believe it?"

"Wonderful!" Hermione squeaked, looking a bit pink. "You must be so good with animals, Hagrid!"

"Well, what I'd really like is a dragon," Hagrid said bashfully, blushing a bit pink himself. "Wanted one ever since I was a boy, in fact! Beautiful creatures, dragons."

"Can you do that?" Hermione asked, looking alarmed.

"Well, they're regulated creatures," Hagrid admitted. Harry and Hermione exchanged looks of relief. Harry glanced surreptitiously at his wristwatch. He was running out of topics.

"Are there lots of dragon breeds?" he threw out, desperate for something to say.

"Lots," Hagrid affirmed. "I'd really like a Chinese Fireball – beautiful creatures they are, bright red and gold. Ah, but there are no Gryffindors here righ' now, are there? I think you'd like the Peruvian Vipertooth, Harry – seems like a very Slytherin type to me – small dragon, but the fastest. I've seen one before, in the mountains." Hagrid looked dazed with the memory, for several long seconds he just sat and stared dreamily into the far corner.

Hermione cleared her throat discreetly, and Hagrid shook his head, blushing. "An' I think you'd love the Swedish Short-Snout, Hermione," Hagrid said fondly. "Blue, they are, with blue flames. Absolutely stunning."

"I'd love to see one," Hermione said earnestly. "When I get a chance, I'm definitely going to look up a picture of one, and all the other dragons! And the Peruvian Vipertooth, right Harry?"

Harry nodded fervently.

"And magic dogs," he said loyally, reaching down to scratch Fang's head.

"Oh, Hagrid," Hermione said, checking the time. "We have supper soon! Thank you so much for the tea!"

"My pleasure, Hermione," Hagrid said, heaving himself to his feet.

"Thanks for talking with us about animals," Harry said, ducking his head a little shyly. "When Fluffy comes out, can we see him sometime?"

The little tidbit, intended to reassure Hagrid that they hadn't noticed his slip, seemed to work. Hagrid looked pleased as punch.

"O' course, Harry," he said cheerfully. "I'll let you know when he's got some time off!"

"Okay," Harry said. "Thanks Hagrid!"

"All righ', you two! Off to supper with yeh now!" he chuckled, and waved them out the door.

"Bye Hagrid!" the two students chorused, and waved their thickly mittened hands. Hagrid waved back from the doorway, then retreated to keep Fang inside and out of the cold. The two of them trudged slowly back to Hogwarts.

* * *


	15. Guessing Games

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen:** Guessing Games

* * *

"So we should start with magical rocks then, I guess," Nick said glumly. "And we don't even know if this has anything to do with someone wanting to kill me."

"Good a chance as any," Harry replied calmly. "But if it's guarding something, it must be really powerful, right?"

"Or valuable," Hermione interjected.

"Or valuable," Harry conceded, smirking at her. "So we should look for precious stones and magical rocks, I guess. I'd try to find the most powerful and/or valuable stone in the world and see if it's that."

"Good lord," Jon groaned. "This is just grasping at straws, here."

"I'm going to find out who's trying to kill my brother," Harry growled. "You don't have to help, Bonham."

"No, no, I'm helping," Jon said hastily. "Tell me what to do."

"All right," Hermione said, taking charge, "here's what we're going to do. Katie and Nick, start with old legends and children's stories; try to find anything about a stone, but don't rule out rocks, jewels, or gems. Harry, you're good at potions, aren't you? You can try to find any stones that are used for potions. Jon, you and I can focus on famous magical artifacts. All right?"

"Right," they all chorused, and separated to do their tasks. Muttering to himself under his breath, Harry made his way to the potions section, pulling a roll of parchment from his bag. He turned the corner into the main aisle for books on potions and stopped in his tracts.

"Nott," Harry said in surprise, and the hunched boy looked up at him.

"Potter," he replied neutrally. Harry stood there, indecisive, before shrugging mentally and moving forward.

"Studying for potions?" he asked lightly as he ran his fingertips along the spines of the thick tomes.

"Independent study," Nott murmured.

"You like potions then?" Harry asked curiously, realizing he knew next to nothing about his dorm mate even after more than half a year at school, sleeping in the same room.

"My best subject," Nott said, nodding. "I'm top of the year in potions, even over Malfoy and Granger, and I'd like to stay there."

"Really?" Harry asked, thinking he should pay attention to the rank status of his year. "Well, congratulations then." Nott nodded, turning back to peruse the book in his hands. Harry shook himself and went back to his own task.

Two dusty, fruitless hours later, Harry returned to the table with a dry throat and nothing concrete to contribute. He'd listed several stones used for potion making on his parchment, but further study had concluded that none of them were particularly powerful or intrinsically valuable in any way. Frustrated, Harry offered up his parchment but didn't contribute to the conversation.

"I found a list of possibilities," Hermione was saying when he slumped into his chair, "but nothing concrete. The Fidel's Stone is the most likely one, I think, but it's been missing for nearly four hundred years. How about you, Harry?"

"Nothing," Harry said, shaking his head. Hermione nodded, looking disappointed.

"Nick?"

Nick and Katie were less dust covered than the others, having spent their time in the story section rather than boring history and potions.

"Yeah," Nick said, flipping open a slim leather-bound book. Harry caught a glimpse of the embossed golden title, _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. "These are wizarding fairytales," Nick said, and Harry leaned forward in interest. "There's a story in here called _The Tale of the Three Brothers_," Nick continued, and flipped the book around so the others could read it. There was a funny symbol beneath the elaborately decorated title – a circle inside a triangle, bisected by a straight, vertical line.

"But these are just fairytales," Jon protested. "Like that story you were telling me about, Nick – Snow Flake or something."

"Snow White," Nick corrected, "and I'm just showing you what I found."

"Well," Harry said impatiently, "what did you find?"

"It's something called the Resurrection Stone," Nick explained, pointing at the relevant text. "It's supposed to be one of three magical artifacts that these three brothers cheat out of the devil, or maybe not the devil, they call it Death, but it's supposed to let you see people who have died. Not bring them back, the story is very clear on that, but make it so you can see and talk to them."

"Might be tempting," Hermione said, interested. "Well done, Nick!"

"Thanks," Nick said, flushing pink. Hermione reached out and pulled the book towards her, skimming the short tale.

"If this is real, it's very likely," she murmured, running a finger along the text.

"It's a fairytale," Jon said helplessly. "You don't think _Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump_ is based on truth, do you?"

"Er, well," Nick said sheepishly.

"It's our best bet right now," Harry said. "So let's see what we have. I know that Quirrell was trying to kill Nick, and _if_ he's the one who wants the Stone, what can he hope to do with it? It says you can't actually bring people back, right?"

"But it's a _fairy tale,_" Jon stressed, leaning forward. "Don't you understand? Even if the story is based on a legend, which is based on a true story, it would have been written in mind for kids. Cadmus went mad, didn't he? There's _obviously_ something sinister going on with the Resurrection Stone, even if we don't know what it is."

"You think it actually _can_ bring people back from the dead?" Katie asked, her voice hushed and alarmed. "Jon, you don't think…"

"Yeah, I think," Jon said grimly. "If this is true, then I think Quirrell – or whoever – is trying to resurrect You-Know-Who."

"Oh, bloody hell," Nick whispered.

* * *

Several weeks later, in mid April, Harry got into a confrontation with Malfoy.

"Half-blood Potter, the Mudblood's friend!" Malfoy taunted as soon as Harry entered the common room. Harry flashed the other boy a scowl.

"You didn't think we'd seen, did you Potter?" Malfoy sneered.

"Seen what?" Harry demanded. He could see Zabini on the settee furthest from the fire, and was anxious to reach him, but Malfoy was standing in front of him now to ensure Harry's attention was firmly on him, blocking his way.

"You, fraternizing with the Mudblood girl in Ravenclaw," Malfoy sneered. "With the _enemy._"

"Look who you're talking to, Malfoy," Harry snapped. "A _half-blood!"_

"I don't even know why you were allowed in Slytherin," Malfoy said disgustedly. "People like you shouldn't even be in Hogwarts."

"Funny," Harry retorted, "but I could say the same about you."

"_What _is going on, here?"

Neither boy had heard the wall open, much less the soundless footsteps of their Head-of-House.

"Sir!" Malfoy said, backing up a step. "Oh, it's nothing, we were just discussing magic."

"Magic," Snape said, drawing out the word. "Magic, as in magical blood?"

"Er…well…" Malfoy stammered.

"Silence," Snape hissed. "Or be it on your head, boy! Do not lie to _me!_"

Malfoy fell silent with a gulp.

"We do not hold stock in blood here, inside Slytherin's walls," Snape snarled, talking to the entire common room. "We are Slytherins, because we are ambitious, and cunning, and we are _intelligent!_ We are Slytherins, and Slytherins stand by each other. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, you both have detention. There will be _no_ blood talk between Slytherins."

"But he was fraternizing with the Mudblood girl from Ravenclaw!" Malfoy whined. "All the Professors love her, they think she's so _brilliant!_ She's nothing but a Muggle! And he was sitting in the library with her all cozy, sucking up to her…"

"I suck up to no one!" Harry retorted loudly. "Unlike _you…"_

"Silence!" Snape roared, and they both obeyed. "That's a week's worth of detention for both of you…_yes_ Potter, even you! You retorted in kind, didn't you? I'll not have it! If I hear that either one of you takes this outside Slytherin walls it will be a lot more than a week's detention…I'll see you suspended."

Malfoy gaped.

"You can't!" he said shrilly. "My father…"

"Is. Not. Here," Snape said, low and threatening. Malfoy shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. Snape straightened. "That goes for all of you," he said, louder. "Keep your disagreements within Slytherin or you will _not_ like the consequences, and there will be _no blood talk about any of the half-bloods in Slytherin._ Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Professor Snape," the other students chorused, subdued.

"You will both receive a letter detailing your detentions," Snape said, looking down at both cowed first years. Harry nodded, staring at his shoes. "Dismissed," Snape said disgustedly. Harry turned and made a beeline straight for Zabini, scowling.

"You shouldn't have said anything," Zabini said indifferently. Harry flushed.

"What, you expect me to take that lying down?" he hissed in disbelief. Zabini grinned broadly.

"No, and I'm glad you didn't. Serves that little suck-up right. But that doesn't change what you _should_ have done."

"I won't lay down and be stomped on by a little pretty boy with a rich father," Harry spat. "But you're right. Next time, I'll get revenge."

"That's talking Slytherin," Zabini said approvingly.

"Unlike _him,"_ said another voice. "Merlin, if his father and mine weren't friends, and if Lucius Malfoy couldn't give us a world of hurt, I'd hex him into mush."

Harry and Zabini looked up curiously. Theodore Nott stood there, tall and spare and weedy, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He carried his head and neck forward, like some sort of bird, and his stringy brown hair hung just above his shoulders. He blinked at them from dark-ringed eyes, mouth twisted to the side bitterly. He looked like life had dealt him a bad hand.

"Nott," Zabini said, neutrally. "Sit down?"

"Thank you, I will," Nott said, hooking a chair with his foot and pulling it over. "Potter," he nodded, and Harry nodded back amiably.

"Chess?" Harry asked, pulling the board closer. Nott looked up in surprise.

"Yes," he said, slowly. "All right."

Zabini looked on in interest.

"Maybe he'll beat you, Potter," Zabini said hopefully.

"Maybe," Harry said, nodding. Then he grinned, a flash of wicked delight. "He can try."

* * *

At the beginning of May, Nick sat down at Gryffindor and beckoned to Harry, who was already seated at the Slytherin table. Harry rose to his feet and headed across the Hall towards his brother.

"You're friends with Hagrid, right?" Nick asked in a low voice, and Harry blinked in surprise, then shrugged.

"Sure," he said, not entirely truthfully – Hagrid was more of an information source. "Why?"

"There was a ruckus last night," Nick explained. "We saw it out the common room window. A bunch of people went to Hagrid's hut at around midnight, and there were lots of bright flashes and stuff. His hut started burning too, but they put it out."

"What happened?" Harry asked curiously, thinking that Hermione would want to know. Nick shrugged.

"Who knows?" he asked. "Thought you might...it might be, you know."

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding. "You should go tell Hermione. She'll want to know."


	16. Brothers, Always

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Sixteen:** Brothers, Always

* * *

Suddenly, exams were upon them. Harry would never know how he'd managed to actually study when he half expected a corpse-like Voldemort to suddenly come alive and go after his brother, but somehow he did.

It was getting hot by then, especially in the library, and the dust made for especially dry throats.

For exams themselves at the beginning of June, they were given special quills with Anti-Cheating charms on them, and the first year classes were put into a large classroom on the first floor to do their written exams.

There were also practical exams, like when Professor Flitwick called them back into his classroom one at a time to make a pineapple tap-dance across his desk (Harry managed an excellent show, although he nearly sent his pineapple toppling off the edge with the ending bow), and Professor McGonagall wanted them to turn a mouse into a snuffbox. Harry's was a pretty little box with a pattern of shaped vague birds, but it was coloured entirely greyish brown, like the mouse, and had pink corners. The overall effect was somewhat nice, but McGonagall knew he'd forgotten to factor in colour, and he had points taken away for that.

Snape made them all very nervous, even his Slytherins, by breathing down their necks while they all tried to make a Forgetfulness potion. Harry thought he managed very well, despite that…and despite the fact that Harry was unable to sleep properly.

It was the dreams, vague and confusing as they always were, but worse than ever now that his tensions ran so high.

The longer Harry thought about it, the more convinced he became that it _was_ possible to truly resurrect someone with the Resurrection Stone, and the more convinced he became that Quirrell wanted to do exactly that.

It was during their last exam, History of Magic, that Harry's head began to ache. The pain centred on his forehead, exactly where his funny-shaped scar was. Harry flinched and rubbed it – it had stung and burned before, but never to this degree.

A feeling of pervading excitement rose up in his chest, beside an emotion very much like fear. The two emotions battled each other strangely, and Harry was gasping by the time their exam wrapped up, and Harry knew he'd probably failed that one. He'd only got three-quarters of the way through.

There was something going on, Harry knew it. Something with that sense that brought the dreams to him, and had alerted him as to what was happening when Nick had gone after Hermione and found the troll as well.

Harry just hoped that the presence of Dumbledore would be enough to keep Quirrell away from the Stone, or barring that, that Hagrid keep his mouth shut about finding a way past it…

Oh, why hadn't he thought of it _before…_

Harry fled the classroom while his year mates were still cheering the end of exams. Alone, he flew down the stairs and out into the bright, hot sunshine, sprinting for Hagrid's hut.

Hagrid was sitting on his front stoop, shelling peas from a large bowl.

"Hullo," he said when Harry came to a halt in front of him.

"Hi Hagrid," Harry said, forcing fake cheer into his voice. "How are you?"

"I'm jus' fine thanks, Harry. Finished with your exams? Got time for a drink?"

"Sure," Harry said, smiling despite an urge that was telling him to _hurry, hurry_.

Hagrid stood up and went into his hut. Harry followed.

"Where's Fang, Hagrid?" Harry asked, looking around for the dog with a hopeful expression on his face.

"'E's outside," Hagrid said, pouring iced pumpkin juice into mugs.

"Do you think he'd want to play fetch or is it too hot?" Harry asked, injecting a bit of worry into his tone.

Hagrid laughed.

"Probly too hot," he said, smiling through his bushy black beard.

"Oh," Harry said disappointedly as he accepted his mug and followed Hagrid back out. "Hey Hagrid, I never got to see Fluffy. Is he still here?"

"Yeah, still on te job," Hagrid said proudly.

"Is he very big, like Fang?" Harry asked, making sure he looked rapt and interested.

"Oh, aye," Hagrid said. "He's very big, much bigger than Fang, actually."

"_Noo,"_ Harry said crossly. "You're teasing me. How much bigger?"

"Quite a bit bigger than yeh're thinkin' even," Hagrid chuckled. "I wouldna be able ter control 'im if'n I didn' know how."

"How do you control a dog that big?" Harry asked, making his voice just the right blend of interest and childhood innocence.

"Eh, it's righ' easy it is, yeh jus' play 'im a bit o' music an' he drifts righ' off ter sleep."

"Really?" Harry asked doubtfully, and this time his doubt was genuine.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that," Hagrid said dolefully.

"Oh," Harry said. "I won't tell anyone you did, I promise."

"That's a good lad, Harry," Hagrid said, ruffling Harry's hair fondly with an enormous hand.

"Hagrid," Harry said seriously. "Have you told anyone else how to get past Fluffy?"

"Well," Hagrid said, and his guilty, ashamed expression gave him away.

"Oh look!" Harry said, distracting him before Hagrid could come up with a lie. "There's Fang! Hi, Fang!"

The boarhound raised his head from where he was lounging under a tree a few meters distant, then laid it back down on the ground with a loud sigh.

"I should go, Hagrid," Harry said, his heart pounding in his chest. "My friends will be looking for me."

"All righ' Harry, take it easy now," Hagrid said, still looking slightly worried.

"You too Hagrid," Harry said, and started walking back up to the castle. When he was out of sight of Hagrid's hut, he broke into a run.

He headed for the lake, where he instinctively knew his brother was lounging with the rest of the Gryffindor second years. Harry arrived pale and sweaty and wouldn't tell his brother what was wrong.

"Come with me, come with me," Harry insisted quietly, avoiding the gazes of the Gryffindors.

"All right," Nick said, rising to his feet. Harry took off at a jog towards the castle, Nick at his heels.

"It's Hagrid," Harry explained when they were far enough away from the lake as to not be overheard. "He's told someone – Quirrell, clearly – how to get past Fluffy. I know because he just told _me_ how to do it."

"But the Stone will be safe as long as Dumbledore's here, right?"

"One can hope," Harry said grimly. Nick looked dismayed.

"We should tell him at least," Nick whispered. "Dumbledore, I mean. Just so he knows."

"Yes, all right," Harry said. "Let's go."

The two boys hurried up the steps and into the castle, then paused, for they didn't exactly know where the Headmaster spent his time.

"What are you two doing inside?" a voice asked briskly from behind them, and they turned. Professor McGonagall was coming down the Great Staircase, arms full of books.

"We're looking for the Headmaster," Nick said bravely.

"Why is that?" McGonagall asked, as though such a request was very strange (which, Harry thought, it probably was).

"Um," Nick said, wavering, then threw caution to the winds. "It's about the three-headed dog," he said in a rush. "We think someone's er…figured out how to get past it."

Professor McGonagall looked shocked and then angry.

"However did you find out about that?" she asked irritably.

"Never mind that," Nick said desperately. "We need to tell Professor Dumbledore."

McGonagall looked at them for a long moment.

"I will tell Professor Dumbledore when he returns in the morning," she said finally. "Rest assured however, there is no danger."

"But Professor – "

"Potter," she said sharply. "I know what I am talking about. I suggest you both go outside and leave adult matters to the adults."

With that, she whirled around and stalked away, her spine perfectly straight.

"Dumbledore's gone," Harry murmured, subdued. "And Quirrell has everything he needs."

"It'll happen tonight," Nick whispered in reply. "What're we going to do?"

Harry stared after the departing Head of Gryffindor House.

"We're going to stop it," he vowed, his face set in determination.

"How?" Nick asked curiously.

"We should tell Snape at least," Harry said, "he'll know what to do – "

"No!" Nick hissed, and Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Nick blushed. "Look," he said. "I believe you, I think you're right – but just in case, all right? It would be stupid if we're wrong."

Harry scrutinized his brother's face, taking in the tense worry that lurked in his dark eyes and the twisting of his mouth.

"All right," he said finally. "We don't tell Snape. We go after the Stone ourselves, instead."

"All right," Nick breathed.

"Tonight," Harry said tensely.

"Tonight," Nick echoed, and it sounded like a vow.

* * *

They waited tensely for night to fall. They struggled through dinner at their respective tables, doing their best to act normally. It was easy for Harry – he'd been fooling people his entire life – but Nick had to struggle a little bit. Once, he accidentally knocked his cup over and startled himself, garnering a strange look from Katie.

Finally though, dinner was over. Harry caught up to his brother in the entrance hall to say goodnight, as was normal for him. He slipped a note into Nick's hand as he did so.

_Seventh floor, empty classroom to Gryffindor's right going in, as soon as everyone's gone to bed._

Harry didn't have to wait that long, just until the rest of his year mates went to bed. He joined them in their evening ablutions to keep up the appearances of normality, then waited for them to get into bed before pulling out his silver cloak and slipping out of the dorm. With luck, they would never know.

He crept up to the seventh floor, going slowly and carefully since he knew Nick wouldn't be out for a while yet. There, he waited in one of the abandoned classrooms on that floor, huddled beneath his cloak.

What seemed like ages later Nick finally showed up, dressed in his school robes and looking very nervous.

"Hey," Harry said quietly, pulling off the cloak. Nick started, then shook himself as if to chase away the nervousness. Harry beckoned him closer and tossed the silver cloak over them both. "Ready?" he asked in a whisper.

"Let's go," was the faint reply.

They slipped through the darkened corridors as silently as possible, walking one-behind-the-other with Harry in the lead.

At the foot of the stairs leading down from the seventh floor, they spotted Mrs. Norris and gingerly sidestepped around her, holding their breath. She sniffed suspiciously in their direction.

They didn't meet anyone else until they reached the fourth floor, where Peeves was loitering as he loosened the carpet so people would trip. Nick's shoe scuffed the floor in his surprise, and Peeves shot upright, small dark eyes narrowing wickedly.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Know you're there, even if I can't see you. Are you a ghoulie or a ghostie or a wee student beastie?" He floated there, squinting. Harry's heart pounded in his chest. "Should call Filch, I should, if something's a-creeping around unseen," Peeves threatened, and Harry had suddenly had enough.

"Peeves," he whispered, his voice like a bitter breath of wind. "The Bloody Baron has business here tonight, and his own reasons for remaining out of sight."

Peeves almost fell over in shock, and Harry winced. Was that how the Baron sounded at all? Had he just ruined everything?

"So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir," Peeves said smarmily. "Didn't see you – of course I didn't – forgive old Peevsie his little joke, sir…"

"Stay away from this place tonight," Harry whispered, not daring to hope.

"I will, sir, I most certainly will," said Peeves, and he sidled away. "Hope you're business goes well, Baron," he said as he fled. "I'll not bother you."

"Bloody hell, Harry," Nick whispered when he'd gone, sounding fiercely impressed, and Harry shook with silent, terrified laughter.

Then they were there, outside the forbidden corridor on the third floor – and the door was already open.

Panicking now, Harry pushed it open enough for them to both squeeze in.

"How're we getting past the dog again, Harry?" Nick asked, alarmed.

"By singing," Harry whispered, staring up at the vast dog. "Hiya, Fluffy."

"Fluffy?" Nick hissed. Harry grinned despite the thunderous growls, and started to hum a tuneless, trembling song. Almost at once the dog quieted, then teetered on its paws. After a moment he crumpled to the floor and started to snore.

Nick pushed the cloak off and stepped closer, staring at the trapdoor with interest.

"We're good," he whispered hoarsely. "He didn't fall on it. C'mon – look, Quirrell's already come – that must be his harp."

Harry nodded, still humming, and Nick struggled with the trap door, finally heaving it open to expose a deep, black hole. They couldn't see anything at all.

"I'll go first," Nick said. Harry shook his head madly, but Nick gave him a dirty look. _"Yes,_ I will go first," he insisted. "I'm older. I'm the boss."

Harry glared fiercely, but Nick ignored him and sat down on the edge to dangle his feet into the hole.

"See you down there," he whispered, and scooted in to dangle by his fingertips from the edge. "Don't come down until I call," he whispered. "If I don't, run as fast as you can and send Rocky or Hedwig to Dumbledore, all right?"

Harry nodded reluctantly, forcing himself to keep humming, and Nick let go and vanished into the darkness.

"It's okay!" Nick called up a moment later. "Come down!"

Harry wasted no time. Still humming, he sat down and swung his legs into the darkness, and slid inside. And fell, down…down…down, until he landed with a flump on something spongy and soft.

"Oof," Harry said when he landed, then looked at his brother.

Nick was wild-eyed, staring at his legs with fright.

Harry turned to look, then leapt to his feet and struggled to the edge. They'd landed on a plant thing, and while it had cushioned his fall it had also wrapped long, slender vines tightly around Nick's legs, and had begun doing the same to Harry as soon as he'd landed.

"Nick!" Harry yelped, and Nick was galvanized into action, trying desperately to fight his way free. Frantic, Harry fought his way over to help, kicking hard when the vines tried to grab him too.

"Harry," Nick said, panicking. "Harry, burn it up!"

Harry yanked out his wand and yelped out a fire charm. The vines flinched and fled away in the face of it, shrinking and releasing Nick's legs. Nick scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.

"Come on," Harry said nervously. "Before it comes back. This way." He led the way down a stone passageway – the only way forward.

They walked and walked and walked, the only sound their own footsteps, breathing, and the faintest trickle of water on the walls. The passageway sloped gently downward, taking them deeper and deeper underground.

Until, finally, Harry heard something. He paused and cocked his head, and Nick stared in front of them intently, as if he could see the origin of the noise just be wanting to hard enough.

"Come on," Harry whispered, and they crept forward cautiously, and the soft rustling sounds grew louder and clearer.

A light appeared ahead, and beyond that, Harry could see fleeting shadows, moving. Harry and Nick exchanged a cautious look, then moved ahead. They came out into a huge, brilliantly lit chamber, the ceiling arching high above their heads and filled with small, glittering metallic birds, flitting from one end of the room to another. Harry and Nick stared, bewildered. There seemed to be no set pattern to their flight; they flitted and spiraled and darted this way and that. They looked tiny and harmless, but Harry didn't doubt that they were the test.

He looked harder.

"Nick," he said slowly, thinking his eyes were fooling him. "Are those…?"

"They're keys," Nick said breathlessly. "Look, one of them unlocks the door over there."

"How're we supposed to – oh, look, broomsticks!" He glanced at his brother and they both grinned.

"Come on then," Nick said, and they both jogged across the room and grabbed up a broomstick. Harry took a moment to look at the door.

"Look for an old fashioned silver one," he said. "Like the handle."

"Right," Nick said, mounting his broom. Harry followed suit, and they both kicked off from the ground.

It was the first time they'd flown together, and Harry knew right away that they would have to make a habit of it. They flew like they knew each other's thoughts.

The keys were fast, and agile. They turned and darted and dove, but they were no match for Harry and Nick. Within a minute, Harry spotted a big silver key with bright blue wings, one of which was crumpled as though someone had already grabbed it.

"There!" Harry called, pointing. "The big silver one with the bent wing!"

"I see it!" Nick said, and went dashing off in the key's direction. Harry hovered inconspicuously near the corner of ceiling and wall, holding very still as Nick herded the key towards him. When it was close enough Harry reached out, lightning quick, and snatched the key from the air.

It wriggled and struggled harder than any Snitch, but Harry kept a good hold on it as they landed and ran to the door and shoved it in the keyhole.

It worked. The lock opened with a faint _snick_, the doorknob turned, and the key yanked itself free and flew off, looking very battered now that it had been caught twice. Harry looked at Nick, took a deep breath, and slowly opened the door.

The next room was so dark they couldn't see anything at all until Nick eased one foot inside. Then the room blazed with bright light, illuminating a gigantic chess board, complete with black and white, life-sized pieces. The two boys stared at the board, wary.

"What now?" Harry asked finally, and Nick took a few steps into the room. They'd come in behind the black pieces, at the edge of the board. Across from them were the towering white pieces. Harry's stomach twisted, because the white pieces had no faces.

"Do we have to join them to get across?" Nick whispered curiously to his brother, and jumped when one of the black knights nodded from aboard his rearing horse. "I'm not very good at chess," Nick admitted.

"Me neither," Harry whispered. "But the two of us…"

"Yeah," Nick said. "Okay, I'll be a bishop, Harry, you be that castle."

Harry obediently took the place of the castle, which scooted off the board as soon as Nick stopped speaking.

Nick took his place, breathing fast.

"White always plays first," Harry murmured, and sure enough a white pawn moved forward two squares.

Nick started tentatively directing the pieces, and they silently did as he said. Harry's breath started coming faster.

Nick moved diagonally four squares to the right.

"Nick, the Knight," Harry murmured, and his voice echoed in the cavernous room. Nick looked at the Knight, poised in front of the white queen. Nick understood.

At Nick's instruction, the Knight moved forward and sideways, and the faceless white queen struck him down viciously and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite still, facedown.

Shaken, Harry made his move to take the other side's bishop. He merely tapped it and pointed off the board, and the piece moved obediently away.

The white pieces however, showed no mercy. Time after time they struck, until nearly all the black pieces were taken. Harry fought hard to keep from trembling, and Nick was nearly green with fright.

And then, quite by accident, Harry stood just a move away from checkmate. Both Harry and Nick gaped for a moment as the queen smashed the other Knight, but far be it for Harry to look a gift horse in the mouth. With all haste he hurried forward, and the white King threw his crown at his feet. It rang as it fell to the floor, and Nick and Harry bolted across the board to the door.

"Oh bloody, I can't believe we did that," Nick panted. "I thought we were both done for."

"What next?" Harry asked, still dealing with the residual trembling. "We've done Sprout, and Flitwick, and McGonagall…that leaves Snape then, if they're going by Heads of House."

"The Headmaster, maybe?" Nick asked uncertainly.

"You don't think they'd use Quirrell, do you?" Harry froze. The two boys looked at each other frantically, then turned and pushed open the door.

They were immediately met with a horrible stench, one very similar to something they'd smelled once before, although this time it was much, much stronger. Covering his mouth and nose with his hand, Harry blinked his watering eyes to bring them into focus. On the floor, out cold with a blood lump on its head was an enormous troll, even bigger than the one they'd had to deal with on Halloween.

"Oh damn," Harry said, the words muffled behind his hand.

"Glad we don't have to deal with that one," Nick muttered.

"It'll help us catch up too," Harry said as they inched gingerly around the troll's outstretched arm.

They braced themselves as they opened the next door, prepared for the worst…but there wasn't anything scary in that room at all. Just a long table, holding a long row of glass bottles. They cautiously entered the room. Harry nearly fell backwards when there was a whooshing sound, and flames burst into existence at the door they came in through, and the door across the way.

They looked at each other, then looked at the table.

"Snape's," Harry said with certainty. "There must be a way to get through the flames. Here, look." He held up a note that had been on the table, and Nick leaned close to read it with him.

_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_

_Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,_

_One among us seven will let you move ahead,_

_Another will transport the drinker back instead,_

_Two among our number hold only nettle wine,_

_Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line,_

_Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,_

_To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:_

_First, however slyly the poison tries to hide_

_You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;_

_Second, different are those that stand at either end,_

_But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;_

_Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,_

_Neither dwarf nor giant holds death on their insides;_

_Fourth, the second left and the second on the right,_

_Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._

Again, Harry and Nick looked at each other, uncertainty in every part of their bodies.

"It's a riddle," Harry murmured.

"I've never been very good at riddles," Nick admitted, and Harry laughed quietly and a little hysterically.

"Okay, so how are we going to do this. We don't want either one at the end," Harry started, and picked up the rounded bottle on the right and the tall bottle on the left, and set them aside.

"Twins once you taste them," Nick muttered. "Two are nettle wine. The second on the left and the second on the right, so that means that the third on the right and the one on the very left were both poisons. That leaves the smallest bottle and the square one."

"Neither dwarf nor giant holds death on their insides," Harry said, and the two brothers looked at the tiny bottle, the only one left that wasn't a poison.

"There's not enough for both of us," Nick whispered, face pale.

"But there wouldn't have been enough for us at all, if it isn't a refilling bottle," Harry whispered in reply. "One of us has to go back, then do the puzzle again."

"Which bottle is that?" Nick whispered.

"We found all three poisons," Harry replied, pointing them out. "And both nettle wines. This one's the potion to go forward, and that one to go back." Harry pointed at the rounded bottle that had been on the far right.

"I'll go forward," Nick said, jaw firming in determination. "I'm older."

Harry scowled fiercely.

"By _one year,_" he said grumpily, and garnered a grin from his brother. "Fine," he said finally, "but only because I'll be right behind you. Let me go first – when I'm through the flames, I'll give you thirty seconds before coming back in."

"Deal," Nick grinned, and gave his brother an impulsive hug. Harry buried his face in his taller brother's shoulder and held on tight for a long moment before stepping back.

"All right," he whispered, smiling shakily. "Thirty seconds."

Nick watched uneasily as his brother picked up the rounded bottle and tossed it back, then shivered.

"Is it poison?" he asked anxiously.

"No, but it feels like ice," Harry whispered.

"Go, before it wears off," Nick ordered, and Harry nodded and went through the purple flames.

The stench hit him again at once, triggering his gag reflex. Harry groaned and tried hard not to breath, and barely made it to thirty seconds before he gratefully ducked back inside. Like before, the moment he went in the door slammed shut and flames burst to life, blocking them. To Harry's intense relief, all seven bottles were back in a row, like they'd been when Harry had come in with Nick.

And even better, the tiniest bottle was once again full.

Harry hesitated only long enough to make sure the poem hadn't changed before swallowing the potion in one gulp and rushing through the fire.

* * *

Harry had been right, Nick saw. As soon as he was through the black flames he'd known his brother was right, because Quirrell stood there silently, as if he'd been waiting.

"It _is_ you," Nick blurted out. Quirrell smiled, and his face wasn't twitching at all.

"It _is_ me, indeed," he said calmly. "I'd wondered if I'd be meeting you here, Potter. No little friends? Pity."

"I – "

"You don't seem too surprised to see me here, Nicolas," Quirrell said, raising an eyebrow.

"My brother was the one who knocked you down the stands," Nick said furiously.

"Oh?" Quirrell asked pensively. "How positively rude. I'll have to pay a visit to young Mr. Potter when I'm through here. But whoever set fire to dear Severus?"

Nick almost swallowed his tongue, ice pouring through his veins. He'd just made Harry a target.

"Ah, well, so that particular scheme did not pay off," Quirrell said regretfully. "And it was _so_ much fun watching dear Severus swooping around like an overgrown bat. I had thought, next to him, who would suspect p-poor, st-stuttering P-p-professor Quirrell?"

Nick narrowed his eyes.

"All of us," he said defiantly.

"Shame, that," Quirrell said quietly. "And after all Severus did trying to save your life, I'm going to kill you tonight." Quirrell snapped his fingers, and ropes sprang out of the air and wrapped themselves tightly around Nick, from his shoulders down to his ankles. He wobbled badly and struggled to keep his feet.

"You're far too nosy, Potter," Quirrell said. "Scurrying around the school on Halloween like that – why, you might have seen me on the third floor, for all I'd known!"

Nick spat at him.

"Not only did my troll fail to brain you to death," Quirrell continued, "but Snape headed me off at the third floor, and that be-damned three-headed dog failed to bite his leg off properly." Quirrell turned around idly, and continued, "now wait quietly Potter – I must examine this interesting mirror," and at that moment Harry ducked through the flames, his hand over his mouth, and straightened up to fix Quirrell with a flat, unsurprised gaze.

Quirrell spun around in surprise.

"Hullo, Quirrell," Harry whispered.

And Nick realized just what was going on – for behind Quirrell's turbaned form stood the Mirror of Erised.

Quirrell's face contorted in surprised anger. Harry ducked backwards when Quirrell lifted his wand, and yelped, "Finite Incantatem," at Nick's back. The ropes unraveled and dropped to the floor, then vanished. Nick stretched his hands out to the side and shared an conspiratorial grin with his brother.

Harry ducked Quirrell's spell, and ran towards him. Nick raised his wand and fired a Leg-Locker Curse. Quirrell blocked the spell but couldn't dodge Harry in time, and Harry crouched down and bowled into Quirrell's legs.

Quirrell staggered and only barely kept his feet. His features twisting, he turned to face Harry with his mouth curling up into a snarl.

Harry's hand whipped out palm first and hit Quirrell's nose, and he howled in surprised pain. Nick lunged as he fell backwards, raising his wand…

But Quirrell was fast. Before Nick got a spell off he'd turned and slashed his wand, and Nick was flung backwards to hit the ground, hard, on his back.

Harry screamed and leapt, and managed to wrap his hands around Quirrell's throat. His thin fingers tightened, intent on strangling, and he closed his eyes as his scar seared with blinding pain. Quirrell screamed.

A blow shook Harry down to his bones, and he lost his grip on Quirrell's throat. He hit his knees and Quirrell slashed his wand again. He hit Harry with the same spell he'd gotten Nick with and Harry was flung backwards. He crashed into the wall and slid down it, where he slumped to the floor and lay very still.

Nick gasped and cried out, and struggled to his feet as Quirrell turned to him, rage on his face.

"Now," Quirrell hissed as he raised his wand. "I do not have time for this. _Petrificus Totalus!"_

Nick was too unsteady to dodge – the spell caught him in the chest and snapped his body into a rigid board. He toppled backwards and landed flat on his back, his eyes rolling wildly.

"The mirror," Quirrell whispered to himself, and turned back to it. "It is the key to the Stone. Is the Stone inside? Should I break it? I see myself, giving it to my master…"

"Use the boy," a whisper wafted through the air, like wind through dying leaves.

"Yes," Quirrell breathed, entranced. He snapped his fingers, and Nick went limp, the spell dissolving from his limbs. "Come here, boy," he ordered, and Nick got unsteadily to his feet. He looked longingly at his brother, crumpled in a heap on the other side of the room, but Quirrell raised his wand threateningly and Nick moved reluctantly to stand before the Mirror.

At that moment, the deepest, most desperate desire of his heart was to find the Stone and get away from here, safely, to where his brother could get help.

His reflection smiled at him, smudged and bruised, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a blood-red stone, winked, and dropped it back into his pocket. As he did so, Nick felt something drop into his own pocket, for somehow, the Mirror had _given him the stone._

In the mirror, Reflection Nick turned away and rushed to the other side of the room, where Harry was beginning to move.

"Well?" Quirrell demanded. "What do you see?"

Nick spoke the truth.

"I see myself," he whispered through a mouth that was bone dry and tasted like ash. "Taking Harry to the hospital."

There was a scream of rage and Quirrell shoved him, hard. Nick fell sideways and landed hard on his elbow with a wince, then struggled back to his feet. He turned towards Harry but only got a few feet before roped wrapped around him once more, tripping him up.

"Master," Quirrell said desperately. "What do I do?"

"Let me speak to him, face to face," the bitter whisper returned, and Nick felt a rush of absolute terror.

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough – for this."

Slowly, as Nick watched in horror, Quirrell reached up and began to unwind his purple turban. As it fell away, he turned around.

Nick had to suppress a scream, for there was another face on the back of Quirrell's head. It was bald – they were both bald, for how could one be and not the other? And it was flat – just a gaping slash for a mouth and slits for nostrils, and gleaming, blood-red eyes.

Nick leaned back, terrified, desperately wishing he could reach his wand, laying on the ground near the entrance. He couldn't move because of the ropes.

He was done for.

But then, in a voice as fragile as spun glass, there came a whisper.

"_Finite Incantatem,"_ Harry breathed, and Nick barely heard it at all. He was only certain of it when the ropes dissolved around him.

Nick leapt backwards, away from Quirrell, and the thing that was using Quirrell as a host.

"Nicolas Potter," the face whispered, brittle and deathly, like air from a tomb. "Do you see what I have become? Mere shadow and vapor – I have form only when I share another's body…"

"_Voldemort."_ Nick's lips shaped the word, but he was voiceless.

"Yes," the face whispered. "Yes, it is I…a parasite, no longer with a body of my own. But once I have the Elixir of Life, I will return stronger than ever. Now…why don't you give me that Philosopher's Stone in your pocket?"

So he knew. The feeling surged back into Nick's legs, and he stumbled backwards.

"Don't be a fool!" Voldemort snarled. "Better save your own life and your precious _brother's_, and join me, than to share the same fate as your foolish parents. They died begging me for mercy…"

"LIAR!" Nick shouted. Quirrell was walking backwards towards him as he stumbled away, and the evil face was smiling with that gash of a lipless mouth, a gaping black hole in the back of Quirrell's head.

"So courageous," Voldemort hissed. "So very like your parents. I killed your father first, you know, and he put up a very brave fight…but your mother needn't have died, did you know that? She died trying to save you, and by doing so, she left you alone…now give me that Stone, unless you would have her death be in vain…"

Nick choked and tripped, nearly falling. His breath rasped painfully in his chest, and he gasped out in a voiceless whisper, _"Never."_

"SEIZE HIM!" Voldemort shrieked, and Quirrell spun around and leaped. His hand closed on Nick's wrist and suddenly Harry was in the fray, clamped on Quirrell's back like a monkey, his face dangerously close to Voldemort's own.

Quirrell shrieked and thrashed, letting go of Nick in the process. He fell to his knees and twisted, violently and lightning fast. Nick caught a glimpse of Harry's face, his eyes clenched tightly shut. There was a trickle of blood behind his ear, sliding down his neck.

Quirrell was screaming, throat-tearing, bloodcurdling screams, and Voldemort was shouting, "KILL HIM, KILL HIM!"

"Nicolas," a quiet voice said from behind him, and Nicolas froze a split second before he would have leapt to his brother's aid. He turned.

Professor Dumbledore stood behind him, standing tall in bright blue robes. His face was a mask of fury, and his wand was raised.

Nicolas scrambled out of the way, and turned to watch.

Quirrell was on his knees, his screams getting weaker. Harry had his arm clamped around his throat, and the fingers of his other hand digging into Quirrell's face. The man's skin was a mass of red, angry blisters, popping and oozing clear fluid. The smell of cooking flesh filled the air.

Harry was burning him.

"Harry!" Nick shouted. "Harry, get clear!"

Harry obeyed just as Dumbledore lifted his wand, and he fell away limply, as though clinging to Quirrell had been the only thing keeping him awake.

Dumbledore slashed his wand through the air, and Quirrell stopped moaning his pitiful, agonized cries and fell forward, silent and still.

In the sudden stillness, Nick's panting breaths were the loudest sound in the room.

"Severus!" Dumbledore suddenly called, and there was an indistinct shout, a loud bout of swearing, and Professor Snape came through the doorway, his face a thundercloud and his hair sticking every which way. "Please see to young Nicolas, if you would," Dumbledore said, and turned back to the room. Nick watched as he hurried down to Harry and knelt at his side. Nick struggled to get up, panicking because his brother was _so still…_

"Stay down, Mr. Potter," Snape said quietly. "Where are you hurt?"

"I – " Nick whispered in bewilderment, unable to concentrate. "I – he hit Harry. With a spell that made him hit the wall. He was _so quiet_, and he didn't _move…_" Nick's breath escaped him in a sob.

"Your brother will be all right," Snape said impassively. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," Nick said determinedly, and Snape grasped his elbow and helped him to his feet.

"Come," Snape said, and Nick cried out in protest.

"No," he cried desperately. _"Harry!"_

"He will be coming right behind you," Dumbledore said reassuringly, and sure enough Dumbledore was rising to his feet and conjuring a floating stretcher, levitating a prone Harry to lay atop it. Nick calmed, but wouldn't move until Dumbledore let him walk beside it.

They walked straight through, Nick supporting himself on Harry's stretcher and on the hand Snape held under his elbow. Dumbledore did not need to complete the challenges, or perhaps you simply didn't need to, on the way out. Regardless, nothing hindered them on their journey through, not even the trap door, so high above their heads. Dumbledore simply floated them all out.

The halls were still empty – morning had not yet come, despite the fact that it felt like years had passed since Nick had led the way down through the trap door. Guilt stabbed at him – if he'd only gone alone, or done as Harry had said and _told Professor Snape…_

"He wanted to tell you," Nick said, feeling his eyes well with tears as he looked up at the Potions Professor. "He wanted to – he trusted you. I didn't. I told him not to. I wasn't sure…" Nick sobbed. "And now he's…will he be all right?"

"He'll be quite all right, Nicolas," Dumbledore said reassuringly. "Don't fret, Madam Pomfrey will patch him right up."

"You realize that your brother _did _in fact fracture his neck when Peeves pushed him down the stairs?" Snape asked softly. "Mr. Zabini was quite correct in that assessment, and I only tell you this to prove to you that magical medical care is enough to cure or fix almost anything."

"Yes, sir," Nick whispered, and felt tears falling down his cheeks.

Then they were at the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey was coming out in her nightgown and ushering him into pajamas and then into bed. Nick's heart felt like a band had been clenched around it as he watched Snape and Dumbledore magically transfer Harry to the bed, but then Pomfrey forced a potion down his own throat.

Nick's eyes suddenly felt too heavy to lift, but he struggled against the encroaching blackness.

"Professor," he mumbled, and both Snape and Dumbledore turned. With fingers that felt like lead, Nick fumbled in his pocket for the red, ruby-like stone and offered it on his palm. He felt Dumbledore take it as his eyes drifted closed.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said in the distance, and the pain in Nick's chest was easing as he drifted away into darkness.

* * *


	17. Epilogue

**Title:** No Fortress Is So Strong

**Summary:** In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Notes & Caveats:** This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story _Slytherin Serpent_. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.

This chapter is as yet unbeta'ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, _please_ tell me in a review so that I can fix it.

Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.

"_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~Antisthenes_

**

* * *

**

Epilogue

* * *

Harry struggled against the heavy darkness and tried to open his eyes. They felt like lead, but there was something…he had to do something. There was something he was forgetting.

Something about a mirror, and his brother…

Nicolas!

Harry came awake with a gasp, and his eyes flew open. He blinked, and then he blinked again.

There was a bearded, smiling face above him.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said, and was surprised when his voice came out scratchy and hoarse. Harry blinked, then remembered. He shot into an upright position, nearly head-butting Dumbledore in the nose, already searching despite the lack of glasses on his face.

"Nicolas," he cried, and moved to stand up.

"Calm yourself, dear boy," Dumbledore said soothingly. "You are a bit behind the times. Nicolas is quite all right – in fact, I do believe he is lurking by the doorway right at this moment, hoping to come inside."

Harry spun his head around, and sure enough there was Nicolas, peeking in sheepishly.

"Come in, Nicolas," Dumbledore said, and Nick wasted no time rushing into the Hospital Wing and jumping on his brother's bed. Harry leaned over and wrapped his arms around Nick's ribs, hiding his face in his brother's jumper, and Nick's arms came around his shoulders, squeezing tightly.

"Nicolas has told me what has been happening right under my nose," Dumbledore said, and Harry pulled back in time to see Nick blush bright red. "I must say," Dumbledore continued, "that I am most impressed at how you two managed, with the help of your friends, to get things so completely wrong and so completely correct at the same time."

"Oh," Harry said. "So, er, there was no Stone?"

"Oh, there was a Stone," Dumbledore said. "It's called the Philosopher's Stone, and it's an ancient alchemy recipe perfected by my friend Nicolas Flamel. It is a very interesting stone – very rare, as there is only one in existence. It contains the ability to turn any metal into pure gold, which would make it extremely valuable on its own…but it also has the ability to make the Elixir of Life, which is why Voldemort wanted it so very badly."

"It would have brought him back?" Harry asked curiously. "I thought he was dead…but that was him, wasn't it?"

"He was horrible," Nick whispered, shifting uncomfortably. "I've never been so scared in my life."

"Yes, that was indeed Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore explained. "I have never believed him to be entirely dead. You see, Voldemort undertook many black magic rituals in his pursuit of immortality. One of these clearly paid off. He has been existing – barely – as a pale imitation of a spirit, ever since he was torn from his body that night your parents died."

Harry wasn't sure what to think about that.

"But he didn't get it," Nick said. "The Mirror gave it to me, Harry – and he would have gotten it but you didn't let him."

"You have it then, sir?" Harry asked in relief.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore said. "The Stone has been destroyed."

Nick's jaw dropped. He clearly hadn't known that.

"But Nicolas Flamel," Harry whispered. "Won't he die?"

"He and his wife Perenelle have enough Elixir stored to put their affairs in order, and then yes, they will die."

Nick and Harry stared.

"To boys as young as you two, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Perenelle and Nicolas Flamel, it really is like going to bed after a very, _very_ long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Philosopher's Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much life and money as one could want! The two things most humans would choose above all, but the trouble is, most humans seem to have a knack for choosing precisely those things that are worst for them."

Harry and Nick sat there for a long time, lost for words, and Dumbledore stared at the ceiling and hummed gently.

"We thought it was the Resurrection Stone," Harry said, flushing. Dumbledore chuckled.

"Yes, a remarkably good guess, all things considered. Like I said, you got most of your facts wrong – except for Quirrell's involvement – but you somehow worked out how to do exactly the right thing in spite of that."

"But we didn't do anything, really," Nick said. "I mean, You-Know-Who's still out there. He'll come back one day, won't he?"

"Call him Voldemort, Nicolas," Dumbledore chastised. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

"Voldemort," Nick said obediently. "He'll come back, won't he?"

"Who knows?" Dumbledore asked. "He may be delayed again, and again, and he may never return to a full life of power and strength. However, not being truly alive, he cannot be killed, and he shows just as little mercy to his followers as he does to his enemies. He left Quirrell to die, you know. Quirrell did not survive Voldemort leaving his body, for his system had become so dependent on Voldemort's spirit that it could not function without it."

Harry and Nick nodded, although it made Harry's head hurt so he stopped very quickly.

"Sir," Nick said. "Voldemort said he only killed our mum because she was trying to stop him killing us. But why would he want to kill us in the first place?"

"Alas, I am afraid I cannot answer that," Dumbledore said. "Not today. One day, however, I will tell you. When you are older…I know you will hate hearing this, but when you are ready, you will know."

"Why did Quirrell burn?" Harry asked pensively.

"I can only hazard a guess at that," Dumbledore said. "But…I believe it is because your mother sacrificed herself for you – for both of you, in order to save your lives. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand and cannot bear, it is love. The kind of love that leaves its own mark – not a scar or anything visible, but a mark just the same. It is a kind of protection, to have been loved so deeply, even when the person who loved you is gone. As long as you have that protection, Voldemort cannot touch you, for it is agony for someone so marked by greed and hatred to touch someone protected by something so good."

Harry blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, and Nick turned away slightly to wipe his sleeve across his face.

When he could speak again, Nick asked, "How did I get the Stone out of the Mirror?"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked this question, for it was one of my more brilliant ideas. You see, only one who wanted to _find_ the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it. Everyone else would just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. Now, enough questions – I suggest you both start on that pile of sweets over there."

Harry turned in surprise. Sure enough, there was a pile of sweet packages on the bed next to him.

* * *

Later, Zabini and Nott came to visit him, although Nott looked very uncomfortable. Zabini swept in with all of his pureblooded aplomb and drawled, "Still got your head I see, Potter."

"In spite of myself," Harry grinned back.

"Everyone's talking about you," Zabini said. "You wouldn't believe the rumours going around…"

They didn't stay long – it wouldn't do to tarnish their cold reputations, but their visit made Harry feel much more normal. More like a Slytherin again, as they talked in their roundabout way, subtly grilling for information.

"You'd better be up by the Feast tomorrow, Potter," Zabini threatened as they got ready to leave. "Slytherin's won, you know."

"I'll be there," Harry said, a wide smile on his face.

And he was. It took a lot of cajoling and placating on Harry's part to Madam Pomfrey, but with one last check-up (that made him late!), he was released from the Hospital Wing at last.

Nick came up to walk with him to the Great Hall, which was already full when they arrived. When they walked inside, there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started talking loudly at once. Both Harry and Nick ducked their heads, and Nick thumped him on the back before they went to their separate tables. Harry hurried to the Slytherin table and tried to ignore the stares he was getting.

The Hall was decorated in the Slytherin colours, layered in silver and green. Harry felt glee rising up in his chest as he sat down at the table, and he grinned at his House mates unreservedly. He was greeted with a myriad of expression in return, ranging from disapproval to amusement to camaraderie.

Fortunately, at that moment Dumbledore arrived. The babble and strange stares died away.

"Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are a little fuller than they were – you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts.

"Now, we have a few important announcements," Dumbledore continued. "First, I would like the Misters Potter to please stand…"

Harry started in surprise and confusion, and sat until Zabini elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Stand up!" he hissed, and Harry reluctantly stood. Across the Hall, Nick was standing and staring at the table, his ears so red Harry could see it even from where he stood at the Slytherin table.

"These two courageous young men did Hogwarts and the Wizarding World a great service this last week," Dumbledore said, and Harry felt his neck grow very hot. "I would award points, but I would have to give them both the same amount of points and it wouldn't change the standings very much, now would it." There were a few nervous chuckles at that. "Instead," Dumbledore continued, "I have decided to award them the very prestigious Special Awards for Services to the School."

There was a very loud round of applause, and Harry flushed even hotter.

"Congratulations, Harry and Nicolas!" Dumbledore said loudly as the cheering died down, and Harry sat down very quickly. Nick followed suit.

"And now, as I understand it, the House Cup is due to be awarded," Dumbledore said, beaming. "And the points stand thus: In fourth place, with three-hundred and fifty-two points, is Hufflepuff House!"

There was a brief rush of clapping.

"In third place, Ravenclaw House, with four-hundred and twenty-six points. In second place, with four-hundred and fifty-two points, is Gryffindor House.

"And in first place, with a full twenty point lead and four-hundred and seventy-two points, Slytherin House!"

There was a thunderous burst of cheering from the Slytherin table that nearly burst Harry's eardrums. Draco Malfoy was banging his goblet on the table until Harry flipped his fork at him. It tangled in Malfoy's hair and distracted him quite nicely.

"Well done, Slytherin!" Dumbledore called, "and congratulations again to Misters Harry and Nicolas Potter!"

The cheering redoubled, the other three houses taking up the slack. At the Gryffindor table, Nick disappeared under a pile of people hugging him and pounding him on the back.

Harry didn't think he'd ever forget that night.

* * *

Harry had almost forgotten that exam results still hadn't yet come out. To his surprise, he ended the year at a very respectable sixth place in the year rankings, just two points behind Malfoy himself. Considering the stress he'd been under at the time, not to mention the lackluster performance he'd managed in History of Magic, he thought that Malfoy had better watch out and hope his fifth place rank didn't get taken from him next year.

To no one's surprise, Hermione had the top position by far, closely followed by Nott, then Padma Patil, Daphne Greengrass, Malfoy, Harry himself, and Zabini in seventh, just a few points behind Harry.

Harry had hoped that Crabbe and Goyle would fail and have to repeat a year, and maybe get kicked out of the dorm so Harry wouldn't have to listen to their snores, but you couldn't have everything, he guessed.

Then, almost without warning, their wardrobes were empty and their trunks were packed and Harry had coaxed Hedwig back into her cage, notes were handed out to all students warning them not to use magic over the holidays, and they were boarding the train and pulling out of the station, and the countryside was getting greener and tidier as they sped past Muggle towns, eating Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, with Harry alternating between the Gryffindor compartment with his brother, and the Slytherin compartment with his year mates, and then they were pulling in to King's Cross station.

"You must come visit this summer," Nick implored Harry.

"Yes, definitely," Harry replied. "And you too – come visit me at the Children's Home, all right? We don't have to stay there," he added in a rush, "we can go to the park or something."

"I don't care where we are," Nick said, looking surprised. "Of course I'll come visit you. You couldn't keep me away."

Harry smiled at that, feeling a little shy, and they passed through the gateway when their turn came.

"There's Uncle Vernon," Nick said glumly, nodding at a huge man with an unpleasantly florid face.

"Urgh," Harry said, feeling his eyes go wide. Nick laughed. "There's Michael," Harry said, pointing at his social worker. Michael looked befuddled again, as though not quite sure what he was doing there.

"He looks a lot more pleasant," Nick said dolefully.

"No doubt."

"We'll visit each other as much as possible," Nick vowed, and Harry nodded, then went to his brother and hugged him hard around the ribs. Nick squeezed back just as tightly.

"See you soon," Harry said, his voice muffled in his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah," Nick replied, and the two boys went their separate ways.

"Hi Michael," Harry said.

"Harry! My goodness, you've grown!"

"Yes," Harry said, and looked back at his brother.

Nick waved, and mouthed something at Harry. Harry thought it looked a lot like, _I love you._

Harry smiled, and mouthed it back.

**Fin**

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**A/N: **There we are, folks! Hope you enjoyed the ride! As I've said before in review replies, I'm very amenable to correcting mistakes. Please, if you see anything, let me know and I'll fix it.


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